


lighting promise in my mouth

by Not_A_Valid_Opinion



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: AU in which boyd is homeless, Autistic Huey Duck, Boyd is still a robot, Boyd needs a hug, Dewey Duck Has ADHD, Dyslexic Dewey Duck, Gen, I will add tags the more I write for this, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Louie Duck is Claustrophobic, Louie has a pottymouth, Mark Beaks should just be his own trigger warning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trans Louie Duck, a lot of this is reworking the contents of ASTROBoyd, because I can and will self project thank you very mcuh, cmon you KNOW he does, he never met the Drake family, i will explain everything in the story but just to lay it out, no beta reader this is my grave, or a boybot i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25132720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_A_Valid_Opinion/pseuds/Not_A_Valid_Opinion
Summary: Louie is frozen to the spot. For a long moment, he just stands there; then, suddenly, his legs give out. He melts to a pool of liquid onto the disgusting alley floor, something he’d usually never be caught dead doing in a million years, but without a single care in that moment.“Oh my god, you’re not dead,” he whispers, then, to himself; “you didn’t just find a dead body, Louie.”Louie runs into a homeless kid and invites him back to McDuck Manor.
Relationships: Dewey Duck & Huey Duck & Louie Duck & Lena & Violet Sabrewing & Webby Vanderquack, Dr. Akita & B.O.Y.D (Disney: DuckTales), Everyone & Boyd, Gyro Gearloose & Boyd, Louie Duck & Boyd, Scrooge McDuck & the kids
Comments: 71
Kudos: 208
Collections: Finished111





	1. A blackout oath I swore and meant

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of those stories I wrote on the bus to school around a year ago, hated, then put off to move onto other things. Then I went back to it and tried to rewrite it, still hated it. Third times the charm, here's this. I think my issue was I'm used to writing really long one-shots, and it was always too cluttered and too dialogue heavy, but I found it flowed better if I split it into chapters. I don't have super high hopes for this but its been on my mind for over a year now, and now that astroboyd has come out, I was able to give it the proper direction it had been missing and find the inspiration to work on it again.  
> Enjoy.

Though the day sparkled dramatically along the waters it was gradually setting against, the triplets weren’t ready to leave yet. They’d spent the day at the docks- something they could rarely do without some sort of adult supervision, but with a curfew of eight PM sharp, their rather adventurous mother had given them a pat on the back and a raft for rent. The boys were familiar with swimming just as well as they were with boating, or even rafting- they had lived on a boat with their paranoid uncle for a majority of their upbringing, after all. 

So, they’d wafted around and helped Huey dive to find and document aquatic life and specimens along the coast. Dewey had, at one point, drifted off to bother some other kids on the beach by joining their game of volleyball. Louie could be found alternating between basking in the sun on the raft as his brothers- mainly Huey- pushed it around, or laid out on a lawn chair spread out along the sand. It was relaxing for all three of them, though Dewey did have to step away after he almost got into a fight with a hummingbird who was ‘playing dirty’ at volleyball. 

Though the day started relaxing, it picked up when a rainbow-scaled fish neither of them had seen before begane drawing the eye of everyone at the beach as it swam along the coast line, huge and spiked, looking a little lost. Dewey wanted to ride it and Huey wanted to document it, figuring if he could figure out what kind it was by getting closer, he could try to help it. Dewey just thought it would be fun. 

The sun was dropping, and though the bus back to the manor didn’t stop running until nine PM, the ride was a little over half an hour. Considering it was nearing seven PM, they’d have to be leaving soon, and it seemed like a tall order. Louie wasn’t optimistic, but his brothers seemed determined. 

“What about the curfew?” Louie feels the need to ask, nudging Huey. The eldest triplet was always a stickler for the rules- surely he wouldn’t missmange the clock, right? If they missed the next bus, shown to arrive in twenty minutes and famous for never adhering to the times administered through a tracking app installed on Louie’s phone, the next wouldn't be soon enough for them to make it back in time without being late. Getting in trouble was the last thing either of them wanted- especially after last time. 

(Don’t ask.)

Huey frowns, looking conflicted between the app Louie has pulled up and the fish marching along the coastline. Eventually, he sighs. “If… I mean, this fish might need help. I can’t just leave him. He’s too big to be this close to the shore, we’ll have to call animal services, which doesn’t do us much good if we don’t even know what kind of fish we’re looking at.” 

From there, Huey begins to explain his long-winded and certainly time-taking plan to identify the fish. Dewey listens intently, clearly only interested still in trying to ride it. 

Louie wasn’t interested. It was a fish, no big whoop or reward there. It wasn’t that he didn’t care- it was more that he didn’t want to get in trouble. Not after… 

(DON’T ask.) 

He gulps. No, it wasn’t worth it. Besides, it wasn’t just Huey and Dewey- there were other people on the beach, trying to wave the fish down or catch it. They’d be more helpful then Louie would be, he knows. Assumes. _Knows._

So, he dips. He tells his brothers that he’ll send them good wishes from the sofa, and makes his way to the bus station by himself. They’d seemed too preoccupied by the mystery at hand to take much note of his leaving, but they had said goodbye, and Dewey had added a, “Don’t watch Space Race without me,” to his send off. 

The stop was only two blocks away from the beach. It was in the open, surrounded by shops and people still out walking despite it being over seven PM now. Then again, not everybody had curfews, so there wasn’t much to take note of there. He texts on his phone as he walks, his ticket tucked safely away in his sweater pocket. His phone dings, and he pulls up a text from Dewey, which was of him making a puckerface selfie, the rainbow fish a motion blur behind him. Or under him? It was hard to tell in the image. Louie scoffs a laugh before he trips, the phone in his hands going flying. 

It lands with a thud beyond his vision, submerged in the alleyway he’d unintentionally thrown it down. 

He stares blankly at where it had disappeared, a cold chill going down his spine.

That had to be _the_ shadiest looking alleyway he’d ever seen. It was pitch black, the darkness amounting from the shadows of a setting sun and multiple overshadowing buildings surrounding it and beside it. A cold air drifts out, chilling him to the bones. 

All Louie can think is, _Fuck._

He needs his phone. He has to go get it. 

Alone. In the dark alleyway. 

_Fuck, fuck fuck._

Louie has always been more claustrophobic than his brothers. If he’s hiding, he’ll run into a confined area, no problem, but on his own time? Not his favourite thing. He forces his brothers to keep the door to their room open at night, the same way Dewey makes them keep a nightlight at the edge of the wall and Huey stashes food and water all around the mansion. They’ve all got their insecurities, their fears. 

Louie’s was staring down at him and holding his phone hostage. 

His fists are clenched tight at his sides. He needs his phone, so he’ll have to go down there and get it. There’s no working his way around that, no scheme that’ll avoid it. So, he bites his lower bill and closes his eyes. A deep breath in, a deep breath out- and a step into the alleyway. 

Nothing happens. He peeks out- the darkness is still all encompassing, but its the walls that choke him. He’ll never be able to see his phone in the dark like this, he knows, unless- 

Well. His phone did have a voice activation. If he got it on, the light would show him where it was. But that would mean talking outloud in an alley, where anyone- and anything- could be hiding down. 

_Fuck._

It takes a few breaths and a few more steps in before he knows he has no choice. His nails feel incredibly sharp against his palms, now, but the feeling helps to ground him. 

Shakily, he says, “Hey, Bud.” 

His phone, somehow _way_ further into the alley than he could have imagined it ever rolling, glows. The AI voice programmed into the phone by its developers and intended for laziness over whatever the hell _this_ was says cheerily back to him, “Hello, Green McQueen. How can I help you?” 

The stupid name Dewey had added to Louie’s self contact list over his own that he’d forgotten to take out is enough to make him pause long enough to almost laugh. His moment of hesitation, however, does not register on the phone- the light goes out. He panics. “I- uh- what’s the weather?” 

The phone glows as it turns back on and thinks. Louie quickly runs over to it, grabbing it and turning the AI off before it can finish saying, “I’m sorry, there’s no wi-fi where you are.” 

Louie hugs it close. It takes a moment for him to calm his breathing and clear out the rapid thoughts of _got it you’ve got it now go gogogogogo!_ Once he does, he turns the flashlight on his phone on, his hands shaking as he completes the action. The newfound source of light shines down to the end of the alleyway unintentionally, landing on- 

Louie screams. He turns to back out of the alley so fast he trips and falls onto his back, this time holding the phone too tight for it to go anywhere. He shuffles as far back as he can until he’s out of the alleyway entirely, breathing heavy, phone in such a deathgrip he can hear his phonecase crinkling. 

He must have imagined it. He’s scared- of course he’s scared! Fear makes you see things, and he saw- he saw- 

It looked like a body. At the end of the alleyway, tucked under a rag or something but with a clear head and clear arms and so small and a _kid-_

No. No, he was seeing things. He blinks rapidly, rubbing his eyes. A few people on the street stare at him weirdly, but he can’t even notice right now, because holy _shit,_ there was no way there was a dead kid just sitting at the back of an alley. Was there? 

Should he call the police? 

No, because he was definitely just seeing things. 

(But what if-)

Fuck. But what if. 

Shakily, he pushes himself up. 

He shouldn’t be doing this. Louie is a smart kid- he _knows_ what he’s doing is ridiculous and stupid. This is the kind of thing Dewey does, not him. Huey would never go down an alley like this by himself without calling for backup, either. But Louie? Louie simply wouldn’t bother. 

And yet… 

He turns on his phone light and, with a deep, steely breath, he cautiously steps through the path. Now equipped with his phone’s flashlight, he carefully scans it over the floor and around it before he steps. The light lands past a dirty dumpster surrounded by needles and a basket of rats that merely watch as Louie shuffles past them, undaunted by his presence. 

Louie doesn’t want to be right, but he’s sure he saw what he saw. Maybe, though- maybe the kid was just sleeping. Maybe he was homeless or something, and he was sleeping in an alley, and he didn’t get up when Louie chucked a phone near his head or when Louie shone a bright light in his face of when Louie screamed or- 

He’s panicking again, but he’s at the end of the alleyway, and there’s no mistaking what the light from his phone lands on this time.

A kid. A kid, laying on the ground against the brick wall of a pizza place in a cold alleyway, still under a tattered and dirty purple blanket. His feathers were grey with a lighter circular frame surrounding his eyes, which were closed. 

And fuck, he looked pretty dead, laying there. As much as it made him want to throw up, he stares at the blanket where the kid’s chest should be, and he doesn’t see it rising or falling. 

Okay. Okay, fuck, he thinks. One more test. 

He grabs a rock from near his foot and, after a long moment of tearful hesitation, he throws it at the body. 

To his surprise, it lets off an almost metallic sound- to his even bigger surprise, the kid shoots up within an instant, looking around wildly. Yellow and black eyes, practically glowing in the dark, finally land on his own. 

“Ah! Oh,” the kid- a parrot- exclaims, scrambling up over his blanket. “L- look I really _don’t_ have money- but I-I-I’ve got this uh, blanket, or well it’s actually a tablecloth but it’s fairly thick, you can take that! I’m cool with sharing. Or, giving away. Giving away is fine. Um,” he chitters, teeth clicking. He sneezes. “Don’t stab me or anything. Just take it, it’s fine.” 

Louie is frozen to the spot. For a long moment, he just stands there; then, suddenly, his legs give out. He melts to a pool of liquid onto the disgusting alley floor, something he’d usually never be caught dead doing in a million years, but without a single care in that moment.

“Oh my god, you’re not dead,” he whispers, then, to himself; “you didn’t just find a dead body, Louie.” 

The revelation is tight in his chest, and he almost wants to cry. The kid continues to watch him with wide eyes, back against the wall. After a moment in which Louie feels as though he physically can’t move, the kid brings him back to reality by throwing a rock at him. 

“Are you okay?” 

Louie pushes himself up, heartbeat still anything but regular. “I- ya. I thought you were dead.” 

That seems to disappoint the boy. He pushes himself back up against the wall, then nudges the purple fabric he’d had over his back before towards Louie. “Ya. It’s easier to rob dead people, hey? Well, you can still have this, it’s okay. I don’t mind.” 

“No, I-I’m not gonna rob you or- uh, stab you,” Louie scratches his head, nudging the fabric back to him. 

The kid blinks. “Oh.”

A long, awkward pause in which Louie is still working on his breathing and the boy is still working on his wording. Eventually, the kid figures out what to say, patting his sides. “Can you lower your phone, maybe? It’s right in my eyes.” 

After a moment, Louie registers the request; he lowers the flashlight to the ground. It scans over his dirty, yellow shirt and brown jeans, covered both by a tattered cardigan that reached past his legs, edges touching the pavement so it looked almost like an open nightgown. 

The kid slumps against the ground, grabbing at the purple fabric and tugging it back over his lap. “You would not _believe_ the amount of people that want to stab you for a tablecloth out here,” he explains with a little laugh that sounds a little raspy, a little tired. He wraps his cardigan over himself more, clearly shivering under it. “Sorry if I scared you.” 

“You- dude, I’m sorry I scared you! You were sleeping.” 

He laughs. “Nah, not really. But it’s fine,” he affirms, then sneezes into his sleeve. Louie frowns. Before he can say anything, the kid has sniffled and returned a smile his way. “Hey, wanna play cards? I only know Speed. And I’m missing a couple of Kings. ‘A couple’ meaning all. But I’ve got all the others!” 

The offer hangs in the air statically while Louie stares down at him, mind blank. 

Louie should get home. It was getting way more than late out- his curfew was almost up- checking his phone tells him its closer to eight then he’d have expected, the bus long gone by now. Uncle Donald was going to kill him, because there was no way he’d make it home in time. Idly, he wonders if his brothers have made it home already, or if they were still at the beach. His phone tells him there’s no service- if Dewey texted him again while sheltered by the many, small, towering, terrifying wall surrounding him- nope, nope, don’t think about it, _stop_ -

“Sure,” he agrees quickly, before his mind can talk him out of it. He sits down on the pavement in front of the boy, whose eyes shine in the dark, expressing delight. 

“Oh! Great, hold on,” he exclaims, then ducks back into his little nest, hands digging around for the supposed deck. Louie keeps his phone light on, because he couldn’t see very well in the dark, not like the kid clearly could for how easily he dug the cards out and scooted in front of him to set them up. 

Louie wonders what, exactly, he’s doing here. Why was he sitting down in a dark alleyway with a homeless kid with the sniffles that he doesn’t know? He needed to get home, back to the mansion. A warm sofa was waiting for him, along with a slew of Fizzy Pop, his mom, and his uncles and brothers. 

But… did this kid not have a home? He’s never seen a homeless person so… young before. Was that illegal? Shouldn't he have a legal guardian? He wants to ask, but knows it’s _definitely_ not his place. The last thing he’d want to do is offend the kid stacking piles in front of him easily, like he’s done it hundreds of times, like it was of no bother whatsoever. 

(Louie remembered a time when he was scared that his brothers and their uncle Donald would become homeless. Times were rough. Donald was always losing whatever jobs he managed to get every few months, and loans only took them so far. Things always picked back up just before it got too desolate, and Scrooge came into their life before it could take another dip downwards. 

He’d wondered what would have happened to them if Donald hadn’t gone to Scrooge. If they’d lost the houseboat, and then if Donald lost custody of them. Louie tried not to think about it, but it never ceased to be the caution which drove forward each money-grabbing scheme he could come up with.) 

“Okay! Set.”

Louie shuffles closer to the deck on the ground. “Do you play doubles?” 

The boy blows a raspberry. “Of course I play doubles. I’m not unreasonable.” 

Louie doesn’t have time to react as the game starts and hands slap, cards flip, and Louie gets his ass handed to him. The play another round- it goes about the same as the first. 

The kid laughs. “I’m unconquerable. Sorry.” 

Louie was usually bad at card games, anyway. They were more Huey’s thing, though he always fought better with a motivator- something like a bet to keep him inspired. If there was something in it for him, he usually won just to ensure he’d get it. But he couldn’t exactly bet anything with a homeless kid, could he? He wasn’t even sure the kid was homeless. He didn’t know anything about him. Maybe he was just… camping out. 

Okay. So, probably not. Still. 

Louie watches as the kid packs up the cards. He checks the time- his phone still has no service, but the battery life is beginning to lose its hold just as much as his curfew was making itself known. 

He nearly drops his phone. “It’s 8:12.” 

The kid looks up at the sheltered sky. “It has gotten rather dark.” 

Hastily, Louie stands. He sighs, runs a hand through his head feathers. “I have to go. It’s past my curfew, my uncle is gonna really start to panic if I’m not answering my calls.”   
“Why haven’t you been answering your calls?”   
“There’s no service here.” 

That seems to surprise the kid. His beak drops a little, before he lets out a mumble of sudden understanding. “Ooooh,” he murmurs in understanding under his breath. Louie doesn’t have time to acknowledge any meaning behind it- instead, he brushes the dust off his knees and looks out the end of the pathway. 

The air feels stale as he stands.

“Okay,” acknowledges the boy. “Get home safe.” 

Louie doesn’t move. The boy continues to stack his cards back into the deck, well-stacked by this point. When he looks up again, and Louie is still there, he sighs. “It’s fine. You should go before it gets too dark. This isn’t a nice neighbourhood once the lights go out.” 

The duckling doesn’t step away. He taps his chin, thinking uncertainty. “So… you’re just going to. Stay out here, then?” 

The question swims in the air. The kid doesn’t respond, just keeps shifting the deck carefully. Louie waits, but continues after too long of a gap; “Do you have anywhere to go?” 

The deck stops stacking. “I could go to a different alleyway. If someone needs this one more.” The bird looks up, his eyes curious. “Is that what you mean?” 

Louie shakes his head. The parrot frowns, then looks up. Louie follows his eyes up, to the darkening sky, emphasized by a band of clouds covering any remaining light. 

The thing was, Louie usually knew how to smart his way out of things. It took him a long time to realize it, but he could see the entire board, could work things to his will just by tossing words around. He was still learning, but he’d learned a lot already. 

Well. Now he got where Huey was coming from, at least.

“One more round. This time, if you win again, I’ll give you something of mine.” 

An eyebrow is raised in his direction. “Something of yours? Like what?” 

He shrugs. “Whatever. But if I win, you gotta give me something of yours.” 

This seems to give him pause. He looks to the cards. “Um… I don’t really have a lot. But if it’ll inspire another round then… sure. Okay.” 

He sets the deck again. It doesn’t take him long. Louie pushes everything away- the far-too tight, unfamiliar walls of the alleyway are just the walls of the manor; the parrot on the floor across from him isn’t a dead body, he’s just a kid; there’s a warm place waiting for him to get back too; he can do this. A steadying breath, and the game starts. Louie has a shitty hand, but he builds off of what the boy puts down by double, and after a minute of slapping, he’s slamming the deck and shouting the win word. 

The boy blinks in surprise before grinning and clapping for him. Louie puffs out his chest and does a twirl-bow from the floor, then helps to gather the cards. Once they’re all in a pile in the kid’s hands again, he stands. 

“Okay,” says the boy, gesturing to his nest of stuff, which really amounted to the tablecloth and whatever was hidden underneath. He pushes himself up beside Louie, the cardigan hanging off his arms comically large. “Deals a deal. So… have at it.”

For a moment, Louie wonders what he’s got under there- but that wasn’t the point of the bet. So, he speaks up before hands can lift it up; “nope, trust me, I don’t want anything under there. For my end of the bet to be upheld, you have to give me something of yours- how about your word?” 

“My… word?” Repeats the boy, relaxing his grip on the table cloth and staring at him as though he’d lost his marbles. “Uh. I don’t know what you mean.” 

Louie tugs on his sweater with some flair. It’s a showmanship tug he’d picked up from uncle Gladstone and never got around to dropping. “Your word. I’m going to head home- it’s dark, and it’s late, and it’s… yeesh, way past my curfew, thank god my phone signal isn’t working out here. My uncle is probably going to kill me, heh,” he mumbles to the phonecase, then remembers his point and continues; “so just give me your word that you’ll come with me.” 

“... huh?” 

“To the manor I live at. It’s my uncle’s- he’s stupid rich. Lots of extra beds, lots of spare room. He’d be happy to take a kid off the streets- he’s done it before, with my friend Lena. She used to live at the docks, yano, with her shitty aunt before Scrooge took her in. She’s since been adopted, but he got her out of there for a while, and she’s happy where she is now.” 

He watches as the kid’s eyes scrunch shut, and he sinks in on himself. Not the response he’d been going for at all, honestly, and he regrets it as soon as the boy responds; “N-no, no thanks. Um, the offer is nice, but I-I don’t want to be adopted, I-” he somehow shrinks down more- “Just- just take something from here, seriously, I know I don’t have much but-” 

Louie shakes his hands rapidly, and the kid flinches. Quickly, he shoves his hands into his pocket, and speaks fast to say; “No I- I didn’t mean he’d adopt you, it’s just a room to sleep in, don’t worry!” Although, he had no idea why he’d be worried about that. If he was homeless, wouldn’t getting adopted be a _good_ thing? There was clearly more to it, but it wasn’t the time to dig for answers- not when he just needed one. “C’mon. My name’s Louie, Louie Duck. My uncle is Scrooge McDuck. We live up on the top of the hill, just that way?” he points, but you can’t see it over the tall buildings. He hesitates, unsure if the lack of visibility would aid or hurt his case, and shoves his hands back in his sweater pocket. “What’s your name?” 

The kid is a little untucked, but he’s still pressed up against the wall tight, and his eyes scan him a little uneasily. He clearly didn’t trust Louie, but after a moment, he answers, looking at his small talons as he flicks them back at forth unconsciously. “Boyd.” 

Boyd. No last name, then- none offered, at least. That’s fine. He could work with a first name. “Boyd. Come with me for a second? Just to the edge of the alleyway, where I can get signal. I’ll show you something.” 

Boyd doesn’t make a move. Louie smiles softly. “Trust me?” 

Then, a small nod, and Boyd is slowly pushing himself off the wall and following him out the dark path. Parrots like him could see in the dark, but ducks? Nope. Louie relies again on his flashlight app to guide him out, and he does everything in his power not to look at the rats in the basket, judging him as he shuffles out. As he walks, he continuously looks for bars, then finds it exactly at the edge as he’d expected. He turns, but Boyd is still a little back from him, in the shadows of the alleyway he seems to find comfort in. 

Well, that wouldn’t work, but he couldn’t push him too far. So, he calls, and puts the phone on speaker so Boyd can still hear the other end of the line. 

“Aye? Lad, why aren’t’cha back yet? Yer mother an’ yer uncle Donald are gettin’ antsy.” 

He tries to keep the smile out of his voice. Though it was clearly trying to be hidden, it was clear his great uncle was just as worried as mother and his uncle supposedly were. “Hi, uncle Scrooge! Listen, I was on my way home, but I made a friend. Do you mind if I bring him over? There’s room, right?” 

There’s a moment of silence. Louie is confident in the answer he’ll receive, but even he holds his breath a little, especially when Boyd watches the phone with interest, only his shining eyes visible in the dark. 

Finally, Scrooge responds. “Kid yer age?” 

Louie assumes so, though Boyd did sound a little younger than him. “Most likely.” 

“Does ‘e have permission from his parents to be comin’ over so late?” 

“Um…” he looks to Boyd, whose wide eyes are watching him, now- waiting for his response. He clears his throat. “No.” 

Boyd says nothing. The line says nothing. Clearly, the way he’d say it held enough answers for Scrooge, who hums thoughtfully into the line. “... Well. There’s always a spare room open for friends in need, here. Tell the lad he’s got a place to stay as long as ‘e needs it, then. I’ll send Launchpad over ‘ta pick you up; he’s already out pickin’ up yer brothers.” 

Louie tries not to physically sag in relief as he says his thanks, gives him their location, and shoves the phone back in his pocket, promising to be home soon. He’s not sure why he’s surprised they were still at the beach. Huey probably wouldn’t leave until the fish was safe, and Dewey probably never got to ride it or he likely wouldn’t still be there. With an easy smile, he aims it at Boyd. “See? My uncle is a good dude. And… look, I’m not gonna make you come if you don’t want to, but if you do, our driver is coming to pick me up. My brothers are with him.”

Boyd’s eyes are closed, now. He can’t see them in the dark. His small voice seems to echo against the alley walls. “I… I don’t know.” 

Louie frowns. He sighs. “Okay. That’s okay. It’s just an offer. See the mansion, though?” he points again, and to his credit, Boyd does follow his fingers this time, now that the place is in view. His head pops out of the shadows to do it, then turns to eye Louie again, expression unreadable. “That’s where I’m going. If you wanna stay here, that’s okay. But if you ever need a place to go, the door is always open. Well, I mean, there’s a gate, but you can just say you’re my friend and you’ll be allowed in.” 

That seems to light a spark in his eyes. He steps out of the shadows, a smile on his beak. “We’re friends?” 

“Dude, we played cards,” Louie reasons. “I don’t just do that with anyone, yano.” 

Boyd looks down at his talons. He wiggles them, seemingly processing the situation. After a moment, his head turns upwards. “... Okay, friend. I… I trust you. Let me grab my stuff?”

Louie nods, in case he was looking for permission, and the eyes disappear. After a minute, the parrot returns with a tablecloth wrapped bundle, a few lumps inside indicating extra objects, though the whole sack is tied to a stick like he’s some kind of hitchhiker. Louie had never actually seen a bindle anywhere but in cartoons, and he stares a bit awkwardly at it, trying to keep his expression neutral. Once Boyd is at his side, looking nervous beyond all measure to be out in the light, he smiles encouragingly at him, wondering to himself how exactly a kid winds up sleeping down an alleyway to begin with. 

Boyd smiles back, and Louie knows its a question for another time. 

As they wait for Launchpad to pull up, the boys sat at the curb, Louie tells him about his brothers. Boyd listens with interest, though he tucks the expression away at random intervals, and Louie has to wonder if he’s simply holding it up or its just falling away. As they sit, an old beagle out walking her dog shuffles behind them on the sidewalk. Boyd pulls up the ruffles of his cardigan and tucks his head into it as she passes. Louie wisely chooses to say nothing about it. 

He tilts his head to look at Boyd, who was tugging his ragged cardigan over his arms and staring at the ground uneasily. He nudges him. “Hey, Boyd? Thanks for trusting me. I think you’ll like McDuck Manor.” 

Yellow eyes stare up at him. There’s a long moment before any response comes, once Boyd’s eyes are back on the ground rather than searching for something on Louie’s that he could only make weak guesses towards. “You think?” 

“Ya. Our sister, Webby, lives there too. She’s an oddball for sure, but it wouldn’t be a family without her. Then there’s our uncle Donald, our mom Della, and of course Scrooge, and the ghost butler and the living butler who would kill me if she knew I was calling her a butler. Lena and Violet are friends of ours, and they come over all the time. Usually to hang out with Webby. There’s lots of people to get to know.” 

Boyd still looks unsure. “Wow… all those people and there’s still room for me?” 

Louie snaps, sending an easy gesture that calmed both him and the boy his way. “‘Course! It’s a huge manor. Tons of spare rooms. Plus there’s a science lab below us, if you’re into that kind of stuff.” 

His eyes go wide. “A science lab? That sounds…” he trails off, seemingly thinking, before a smile pops on his face. “That sounds nice.” 

Oh, he’d totally get along with Huey, and probably Violet too, if he liked the idea of the lab. A sort of dreamy look swarms onto the boy’s face before a sneeze breaks him out of it. 

“S’rry.”

“All good. We’ve got sick medicine if you need it.” 

“No, it’s- that probably won't help. It’s not contagious or anything, trust me, it’s just…” 

He seems to be at a loss for the word, face scrunched. Louie raises an eyebrow. “Allergies?” 

His face lights up. “Sure! Yes, allergies.” 

Louie narrows his eyes, but he can see Launchpad’s car pulling up far over the speed limit. “Oh,” he says suddenly, “I guess I should warn you about Launchpad’s driving, huh?”


	2. but couldn't conjure up again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boyd's corrupted memories begin to cause glitches around McDuck Manor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for what can be interpreted as a PTSD attack.

_ “-just a glitch,” cries the fire, “-will work, needs more time.”  _

_ The dark sky is shielded atop the burning ceiling, desperate smoke climbing at the rafters, aching for release.  _

_ “Not yours,” clashes the walls, only to be toppled down by the flames. Cords of electricity continue to fuel the carnage, eating each other, devouring a picture frame. He can’t quite see the image encased within before it crumples before him, ashes to ashes. It’s important. He wants to hold it, to run into the fire around it and save it.  _

_ “-isn’t! He-” A voice like thunder. _

_ “-It, dammit, not a he-” A voice like silk.  _

_ The cords extinguish, too. The damage they’d caused is irreversible.  _

_ The frame is gone. He knows he should have looked at the picture in it. There’s something there that matters, and he’s lost it. He’s destroyed it. Ashes to ashes to ashes.  _

_ “You are good.”  _

_ The fire stops, hesitates, good, good. Good?  _

_ The picture sits, burned and broken, shattered and unseen.  _

_ What could be good about this?  _

_ The fire brusts up, demolishes the roof, and there are no stars under the freed night sky. It rains, not water, but white. It does not put out that which eats it, consumes it, despises it. There is nothing left to stop it, as the fire rises, the dust drifts, the cords die, the walls lose, and no hand holds his own- not anymore.  _

__

Boyd wakes up terrified. 

He startles, accidentally unplugging himself from the wall in the process, his tattered and hastily taped-back-together charging cable slapping him in his face, the least of his worries. He was- he was somewhere new, somewhere warm, the bed- he was on a bed, and it was soft, and he was-

Oh. Right. He blinks slowly, adjusting to the sight before him. A bed, a nightstand, a lamp. Soft carpet below him, warm covers above him. McDuck Manor. Louie had taken him here. 

Why? 

The not knowing feels uneasy inside of him, and he curls up into himself. The manor is warm, much more so than the streets, and he felt much better now that he had the chance to properly charge without worrying that someone would chase him off for stealing their electricity, or just trying to rob him of his cords altogether. His hands travel to his side unconsciously, but he snaps himself out of it before he can bother exploring the memory. 

Shaking hands unplug himself from the wall, gingerly wrapping back up the seldom-used cord. His throat hurts with the action, and he wonders idly if he’d been talking while in sleep mode. It had been a while since he’d been able to fully enter any real catatonic state, after all, and the desperate need for a recharge meant even after an entire night spent in the mansion being plugged into the wall, he still wasn’t at 100% working capacity or battery sufficiency. 

That wasn’t good. 

_ You are good- _

He hops out of bed, noticing he felt lighter on his feet than the past few nights before. Likely being back in an area with service, if he had to guess. The alleyways he’d kept to had made him susceptible to computer viruses, and powering down for the night connected to a safe network cured his sniffles, at least. The texture of the carpet floor tickles his talons, and he finds he likes it. After a moment of shifting them, appreciating the feeling, he tucks his charging cord back up in his bindle and tucks it back under the bed. If anybody saw it, well… he didn’t want to go down that rabbit hole again, he knew that much. No, he had to be a perfect little boy, the spitting image of a child- he already was, in so many ways, but not enough. He wasn’t a real boy, not like Louie was. 

Not like he wanted to be. 

So, he’d do this the real-boy way. He pulls on his cardigan, which carefully covers his sides and arms- the scratchy fabric is blacker from the dirt caking it than the actual thing itself, a shade that kept him warm outside and helped him keep his business to the streets comfortably. Though it was ripped at the seams in more than a few places and dragged behind him a little, like a robe, the bottom was where most of the tears came from. At times, it would get snagged on materials, which left him wishing he could just cut the bottom off- but everytime he tried, someone was always  _ there,  _ and he was much too scared to follow through. 

_ (Robots don’t get scared _ , he reasons, reminds himself of a lot. It doesn’t help, not when there’s always a more insistent  _ but I’m a real boy, definitely,  _ begging him to otherwise.)

Underneath, his yellow polo shirt was more of a brown at this stage, and he was sure that it smelled. He wasn’t sure how much, because he’d grown so used to it, it was simply normal. It was mostly just dirt on it, but there was singes and oil amidst it as well, most hidden by the cardigan and offering yet another reason he refused to part with the dragging material. He’d never found anything better, anyway. His pants were brown naturally, so they looked the most normal of it all, though they did constrict his tail feathers. He didn’t technically need them, but again, they kept him warm. If he got too cold… well, he didn’t want to think about it. He’d come close more than enough times for his caring, anyway. 

The room around him is much larger than the alley he’d been tucked into the other night. The door to it is closed, sheltering him from the alleged many other bodies within the mansion, and he distinctly recalls Mr. McDuck leading him to it and promising that nobody would bother him for the night unless he needed something. He’d pointed with his cane as he’d been led through the halls- there’s the kitchen, there’s a living room, there’s where the boy’s sleep, there’s a washroom there and another down the left turn, and there’s a patio up the stairs if he needs some fresh air at any point. He’s only shown what he sees on the way to the guest bedroom, but it’s already so much. 

He’d thanked the man and locked the door to the room, staying in it all night. According to his internal clock, it was nearing the afternoon. He’d been charging for hours on end, only jolted out of sleep mode early thanks to the memory glitch in his mind, corrupted data from attempted erasure playing in his mind like a scar, like something worse. 

Logically, he knew he had to leave. This place was open to him for the night, sure, Louie and Mr. McDuck had made that clear. But he couldn’t stay, surely, and it would be risky to assume otherwise. His bindle is already set to leave, and the pair of pajamas he’d been given for the night (likely, to keep the bed sheets clean) were folded neatly back onto the bed he’d mindlessly made. 

Slowly, he peeks his head out the door, recalling where the exit was and debating whether he should leave before anybody notices him or find Mr. McDuck and thank him for his hospitality- only to find a pile of something there, on the floor just outside the room. He picks up the note atop the bundle. 

_ Thought you could use a fresh change of clothes! If you leave yours on the bed, the butler will wash them and have them back by the end of the day. Feel free to head to the kitchen for breakfast if you’d like. _

  * _Scrooge McDuck._



Oh. Mr. McDuck… wanted him to eat breakfast with them? It was past traditional breakfast hours, so he figures the note was intended to be read sooner. He hadn’t even expected himself to stay in sleep mode that long, it’s no wonder his host imagined the same. Was the offer still standing? 

He picks up the clothes. A sweater, clearly sized for a duckling rather than a boy-bot modeled after a parrotchick, but comfortable looking as it was. It was yellow all through, matching his eyes, and there was a pair of red shorts to go with it. 

He sniffs it. They smelled like cherry blossoms. Something soft washes over him and he shoves his face into the items, taking them back into the room after a moment and carefully discarding his own clothes on the bed to change into the new ones. 

To his credit, though the sweater was large on him, the clothes fit nicely. Even the shorts were less tight on his tail feathers than he’d have expected them to be. 

Once dressed in the much nicer-smelling attire, he pokes his head out of the room once more. There’s nobody in the halls, but even without the ability to see exactly where each room was, he could recall Mr. McDuck pointing out where the kitchen was from the night before. Slowly, he steps out, closing the door behind him, and gingerly making his way there. His bindle is hidden away underneath the bed, in case the butler really did come and wash his clothes. He was rather fond of the garments, but it would be rude to get the house dirty when it looked as pristine as it did. 

The halls are wide and incredibly furnished. Lots of paintings and armours, penalty of works of art and weapons in display cases to look at. It felt like he was in a museum. He’d been to one of those, once. Very briefly. For a photo. He hadn’t gotten to see a lot of it, but he remembered it being a good day. 

(He was an idiot for holding onto that feeling, he knew. Letting go of it, however, seemed so much worse.) 

McDuck Manor, from just the halls alone, felt very lived-in. He could tell a lot of people had been through these corridors, running and laughing, playing and fighting. It was a place one would grow up in and never leave. It was a home. 

It wasn’t his, but the feeling of something steady and strong was tangible with every new step. A part of him wanted that. Another part of him wanted that back. 

The biggest part of him forgot it was ever there at all. 

Before he can take another step, he pauses. Someone was watching him. Quickly, he turns around, but he doesn’t see anybody there. But no, someone was definitely still watching him- swallowing, he closes his eyes and feels for a heat signature. 

There. He tilts his head up. There’s a girl there, wearing night-vision goggles despite the bright of day, hanging onto the rafters. 

He stares at her. She stares back. 

“Hi,” he greets, waving a hand slowly. “I’m Boyd.” 

She hops down from the rafters. Her goggles get pushed back on her head, shifting her hair out of place, and he can see her eyes scanning over him. “You don’t look like a spy,” she says. “They’re getting smarter.” 

He blinks. “I’m sorry?”    
“Webby! Play nice!” a older woman’s voice calls, and Boyd turns around to see a tall lady carrying a laundry basket and wearing a perfectly good scolding face. “Mr. McDuck has kindly invited this young man to stay here for the time being.” 

The girl has the grace to look at the floor abashedly, taking off her goggles and fiddling with the strap in her hands. “Sorry, Granny.” 

The woman nods at the apology, then steps closer. Boyd automatically steps back, into Webby, then shuffles away from her just as quickly. As though noticing his jolted movements, the woman stops her trek and says from where she is, “Boyd, darling, my name is Bentina Beakley. You may call me Mrs. Beakley or Mrs. B. That there is my grandaughter, Webbigail, but she often goes by-”    
“Webby!” The girl shouts, no volume control whatsoever. She extends a hand, and Boyd stares at it for a moment. In a stage whisper, the girl says, “you take it and shake it.” 

He does. And he knew that, he’s done it before, he just… froze. Webby’s hand is tight in his grip, either a warning or from too much excitement, and when she releases it he’s glad he can’t feel pain in that way or he might have been wincing. As it was, she smiles at him. “Have you eaten yet? You missed breakfast.” 

“Oh, I’m not hungry,” he says automatically, because it was true. He didn’t need to eat, though he didn’t mind the action, either. She raises her eyebrow, looks him over. After a moment of thought, she shrugs. 

“Okay. If you say so. Hey, wanna see something cool?” 

Boyd stares at her wild eyes, hesitant. His gaze flits over to Mrs. Beakley, who watches her granddaughter with an expression of fond amusement. Her eyes were kind. 

He smiles. Kind eyes like that were hard to find these days. Mr. McDuck’s eyes were soft and caring- not quite the same, but warm nonetheless. After a moment, he says, “Sure.” 

She reaches out her hand again. He knows to shake it this time, but once he grabs hers, she grips his tight and takes off, pulling him along down the halls back up the way he came from and passed. Another turn away, and they’re at a wall. He stares at it in confusion, but her expression is one of determination. 

She kicks it. A bulletin board springs out. 

“Woah,” he can’t help but exclaim. 

“I know, right!” she cheers, hopping up and down. She springs over to the board, which was covered in photos of various ducks, some lined together with string and others left to the side in clusters and tacks. She points around it; “This is my lineage board! It’s like a family tree of sorts, but held together by tacks and strings. Scrooge’s family history is long and convoluted, and it was a fall project of mine a few years back to chart it all out. See here-” she indicates to an image of Huey, Dewey, and Louie, “-these are, obviously, the triplets. You’ve met them already, right?” 

He nods, because he has. Huey and Dewey were in the vehicle that drove him and Louie to the mansion the other night. It was… an interesting car ride to say the least. 

The driver, for one, was far over the speed limit. The triplets did not seem disturbed by his constant swerving by any means, though; he figured that earned it a little of his faith, at least. 

Dewey, adorned in blue, was up in the front seat next to the driver (Launchpad, Louie had called him). Louie next to him and Huey, adorned in red, and the two new brothers were dripping wet. 

Huey had talked the entire car ride, though he had greeted Boyd first. Apparently they’d been at the beach trying to aid a Mantic Rainbow Litne Fish, which had gotten separated from its friends somewhere along the coastline. They’d identified it, Dewey had tried to ride it but had settled for a single stroke against its scales (“it was so slimy… I’ll never wash this hand”), and the AWO has been called to help escort it off the reef and back towards its friends. 

“Wow,” Boyd had said. “That’s really cool.” 

It was really cool. It probably took a long time, and it must not have been very rewarding. Still, both ducklings glow at the praise. 

“I’m happy it’s back home,” Dewey said. 

“She,” Huey corrected. “The males of the species apparently are much more dull in color. It’s interesting, really, the sexual dimorphism of the-” 

Louie pulled down the cap on Huey’s head, who sputtered indigintly and continued his informative ramble once the hat was realigned. Louie watched him talk, looking a little tired but still paying attention. Dewey distracted the driver some more by urging him to touch his slimy hand. 

The dynamic was so natural, Boyd could feel the tension leaving him the more they all talked amongst themselves. It wasn’t a long car ride by any means- not with the speed Launchpad was going at- but it was interesting for as long as it went on.

Of course, interesting was a comfortable word. Boyd liked learning things he couldn’t download off the internet, such as the things Huey said about the brilliance of the fish’s scales and the excitement Dewey had in his tone as he held up his prized hand, despite Louie’s gagging at the smell. 

What was  _ less  _ interesting and decidedly less comfortable was Dewey’s constant questions. 

“Do you have any siblings?” 

Boyd had frowned, but it was an easy question, so he’d gone with it. “No, I don’t.” 

Dewey hummed. Louie shot him a glare at his side, but if the blue duckling noticed, he didn’t acknowledge it. “What’s your number? I’ll add you. My Twitter is hilarious, trust me.” 

Boyd blinked. It was surprising to him to find Louie’s brother just as open and forward as he was. Even Huey leaned in, understanding that the topic had changed. He’d almost felt bad, because he knew his answer was disappointing. “I don’t have a phone. Sorry.” 

“What? What kid doesn’t have a phone these days?! I can’t even imagine the pain,” he gasped, looking genuinely perturbed. 

Boyd had shrunk down a little in the seat. He’d hoped they’d have a moment of quiet, or at least Huey would start talking about the fish again or something, but the silence was short lived as the triplet in the front seat perked up again. “So… how’d ya meet Louie?” 

“Oh look,” Louie cut in as Launchpad pulled the car messily into the driveway, “We’re here.” 

It had been an uncomfortably interesting car ride, to say the least. 

“Ya,” Boyd says, eventually, to the girl still watching him, “on the ride here.” 

Webby nods. She points to another figure on the board; a woman connected to the boys with a string. “That’s Della Duck. She’s their mom. They’re out right now, on an adventure- well, Huey, Dewey, Della and their Uncle Donald are. Louie stayed home. He’s up with Scrooge up in his office, working on their ‘secret project’ which I eavesdropped on once to mean ‘Louie is trying to start his own business and Scrooge is giving him secret billionaire lessons as the richest Duck in the world.’” 

“Wow, Webby. Didn’t Mrs. Beakley ever tell you dropping eaves was wrong?” 

The voice behind them make them both startle. Louie leans against the wall casually, watching them with mild amusement. 

Webby relaxes when she sees him. “Don’t scare me like that. I could have hurt you!” 

“Ya, I know, and trust me when I say I believe that.” 

The boy walks smoothly over to them, inspecting the board with mild interest. He raises an eyebrow at it. “Why do you have people on this without string?” 

Webby looks excited to answer. “Well, because family doesn’t end in blood! Look, see,” she points to a picture of herself, a small string attached only to an image of Mrs. Beakley. “There’s me!” 

“Oh, ya! There’s Launchpad, too. This looks way bigger than when you first showed us it, hey?” 

Webby beams. “Granny got me a new board to put it all on, but she doesn’t know it’s for this. I told her it would be to help me remember to do the chores.” 

“Smart.” 

Boyd continues to look the board over. He sees many people- mostly ducks- he does not recognize. Some he may have seen on television once or twice, he thinks, but his memory circuits couldn’t fire up specifics in their condition. Out of interest, his eyes roam to the images of people without strings. There’s one there, a man, a man who looks-

Who looks just like- 

(You are  _ good-)  _

__ Something is wrong. 

_ (How can he be so cold? The fire is right there, tearing it all apart. Tearing the man away from him. Tearing the sky asunder, but not even the falling ash can cure the damage done.  _

_ “That’s a weapon,” insists a man, gruff and old. Such a familiar voice. Such a terrifying one.  _

_ The man lost to time yet firm at his side clutches him tighter. “I’ll fix him,” he whines, a much smaller voice, a much younger one. He doesn’t sound very certain. Boyd can feel the arms around him shaking, thin and tight, and Boyd couldn’t escape if he wanted to.  _

_ He can’t hear anything, anymore. Mouths are moving, a fire is raging, a city is dying, and he’s breathing too fast. He tucks his head into the man’s chest, trying to block it all out.  _

_ To block out what he’d done.  _

_ “I’ll fix him,” says the younger man again, or maybe Boyd can only hear it on repeat, glitching again, and that scares him even more, not again, not again-) _

__ “-oyd? Boyd?” 

The sound doesn’t fit the memory. Boyd? Who-

Oh. Him. 

_ Him? _

His eyes open. Louie is standing over him, grabbing his shoulders, holding him tight and shaking him a little. “Dude, it’s okay, it’s okay. You’re in the manor,” he says slowly, as Boyd’s chest heaves needlessly, painfully. “Remember? You’re okay.” 

His eyes adjust. He can make out the hallway they’re in, the art on the walls. The board is gone. Webby is, too. Did he- no, he couldn’t of, did he- 

“Webby went to go get Mrs. Beakley,” Louie says, once it’s apparent Boyd’s scattered eyes were searching for something. 

“I didn’t,” Boyd breathes heavily, still looking around, “I didn’t hurt her, did I? Are you- are you okay? Is she?” 

The question seems to surprise the duckling still holding his shoulders firm, clearly scared if he let go Boyd would pass out again. He shakes his head slowly. 

Boyd sags in his grip. “Okay. Okay.” 

Louie watches him carefully. It feels like it takes ages, but within moments, Webby is back with the resident adult. Mrs. Beakley leans down next to him, shining a light in his eyes. 

Boyd’s pupils don’t dilate regularly. He doesn’t need to adjust them to light, since they were filtered already, programmed to be utilized to the fullest every moment. He could manually dilate them if he focused, but they weren’t designed to shrink and grow, just extend and enhance. Whatever result Bentina finds from shining a light in each eye seems to disappoint  _ (worry)  _ her; she shoos Louie away and holds him steady, instead. Boyd could stand on his own, but his head hurts. 

Something feels wrong, and he chokes it down, and it’s taking all his effort to do it. 

“Did he hit his head?” 

“No, I- I caught him,” says Louie while Webby nods. 

She hums. “What caused this?”

Webby answers that one. Her response is quick, but her words lack the confidence they seemed to have just moments before. “I don’t know. We were just looking at my lineage board, and then he started to shake and passed out.” 

This seems to confuse the adult, who snaps, “Webbigail, what lineage board?” 

She glances between Boyd and Louie before moving to the wall, about to pull the board out again. 

Something feels  _ wrong.  _ He wiggles in Mrs. Beakley’s grip, turning away from the wall and into her chest, a whine emanating from his throat. He can’t cry. He was never built to cry.

He chokes what should have been a sob if it could have been into her chest. “I’m sorry,” he says, he  _ cries,  _ so soft and muffled he’s not sure anyone heard it. 

Webby pauses in her movement. Mrs. Beakley stands, scooping Boyd up, careful not to jostle him. 

Curtly, she says, “I’m taking him to the infirmary. You two play quietly out here. And stay away from that board for the time being.” 

Both kids nod at the order, and just like that, Mrs. Beakley is carrying him away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is in Scrooge's perspective :0 then we're back to Louie's. I like to mix it up because it's a big house. Hopefully you enjoyed this chapter! And yes I made Boyd wear a yellow sweater bc of a Phooey Duck joke in my head. You can't stop me


	3. each strangers face across the bluebird sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scrooge and Bentina attempt to get Boyd to open up

Scrooge wasn’t quite sure what to make of the lad. 

When Launchpad brought the boys home, a little parrot in the dirty rags with a lacking bindle he hugged close with them, he was sure in an instant why Louie had requested he spend the night. 

He had nowhere else to go. 

Of course, Scrooge could only assume the story from there. That didn’t do a whole lot of good or make for a fair judge of character, so when he’d first laid eyes on the boy he’d made sure to lift his tophat and deliver his introduction. “Hiya, laddie. I’m sure ya know who a am, eh? Ol’ Scrooge McDuck?” 

The parrot boy had nodded. “You’re Louie’s uncle.” 

Scrooge blinked. “Hm. That’s a first. Alright, well, why don’t we all head inside, yes?” he suggested, standing up with a push from his cane. “Louie and I’ll show ya to yer room.” 

The boy had side-eyed Louie, who nodded casually. The movement seemed to be encouraging, though, as the boy had followed them inside. 

Scrooge had shown him the necessary rooms and to his own, sending off the triplets so the boy wouldn’t be overwhelmed. The room he’d picked out for him wasn’t too far into the manor, and was close to the necessary facilities as well as near where the triplets slept in the event he needed one of them during the night. The old duck hadn’t caught his name, and the parrot hadn’t given it upon introduction. Before the kid disappeared behind the door to the guest bedroom, he’d been sure to ask; “What can I call ya, lad?” 

The parrot fiddled with the hem of his cardigan. A dirty thing; Scrooge made note to ask Bentina to wash his attire later, grateful she already had gone ahead and laid out a set of sleepwear once Louie had made the call a guest was coming over. He was looking around the corridor with a mixture of hesitance and awe, and when his eyes landed back on Scrooge, the duck could see a process of thought behind them. “Boyd.” 

“Aye then, Boyd. Have a good night.” 

Boyd smiled. The second he’d recognized the dismissal, he’d slipped into the room and gently closed the door, though Scrooge could hear the lock slide into place without a moment lacking. Leaning heavily on his cane, Scrooge had made his way back down the hall to the room where the triplets slept. As usual, the door was open just a crack- he could hear the kids talking quietly amongst themselves in the room. He’d knocked anyway, waits a moment, and lets himself in. His eyes connected with Louie’s. “A word, lad?” 

Louie followed him into the hall hastily, his brothers watching him go even as they got ready for the night. He’d led the duckling to the kitchen, not needing to bother checking to see if he was being followed; the soft sound of small, webbed feet was enough to tell him Louie was at his heels. Scrooge didn’t want him to think he was in trouble or anything of the sort, so he takes care to keep his body language open and a look of sincerity on his face whenever Louie’s eyes met his.

The elder duck gestured for him to take a seat at the table, and Louie did, watching as Scrooge poured them both a glass of milk before taking a seat across from him and sliding a cup to his side. 

“So,” was the ungraceful start, “what’s the lad’s story?” 

Louie shrugged, taking a sip of his milk. “I found him camped out in like, the shadiest alleyway ever. I thought he was dead at first. I-”

He swallowed. It took him a moment before he continued. “He thought I was going to rob him. Or stab him. Or both. We started playing cards.” 

“Hmm,” Scrooge mumbled, dissecting that. “He any good?” 

“Beat me a few rounds in a row.” 

Scrooge laughed quietly. After it died off, his face grew solum. “Anything else, then?” 

The green triplet shrugged. Boyd had been tucked beside Louie the entire time, and hell, Scrooge had eyes older than anyone alive that he knew. It was clear that bringing him here was Louie’s idea. The green triplet was always more sensitive than his brothers, but just as well, he was more cunning. He could see things otherwise unseen- it often relied on his ability to be persuaded by his own emotions as it was. Scrooge had utmost respect for his nephew- for all of them, really. If Louie thought Boyd was better off in the manor, even for just a short stay, Scrooge was willing to honor that and compromise. 

However, there were risks. They weren’t, of course, worth delving into before the duckling got a full night's rest. 

Quietly, the lad added, “I think it’s gonna take time for him to adjust.” 

Scrooge nodded, and took a sip of his own milk. Louie watched the movement gingerly. Eventually, the duckling grits out the question; “it’s okay I brought him here, right?” 

The look of surprise on Scrooge’s face was answer enough. “Of course it is. This house is big enough, lad, and it’s no good to leave a’ wee one like him out on the streets. Whatever his story is, I trust you’ll stay close, eh?” 

When Louie nodded a response, a look of sincerity was alight in his eyes. 

Scrooge smiles. He and Donald disagreed on a lot, but they both knew his nephew had done a great job of raising his boys. Not for the first time, he wishes he could have been a part of their lives sooner. When he smiles across the table at the boy, there’s a slight quiver, hidden well enough by the lamley lit kitchen and the muddle on both of their minds. “Good, lad. Take that up ta yer room an’ get some rest. Tomorrow’ll be a day.” 

Louie nodded, and did just that, taking off back down the halls they’d come from. 

Scrooge rested his glass down on the table, eyes closing. A heavy sigh wracks through his body. 

Perhaps it was overly-cautious, but Scrooge sends the majority of the family away on an adventure that’s really just one big errand run for him. He figures it’ll be better for the house to be emptier, at least for a day. An unfamiliar, crowded house wasn’t easy to adjust to, and with their new houseguest they virtually knew nothing about, Scrooge needed privacy. 

He keeps Louie, though. Webby stays home, as well, but she chooses that of her own accord. The lad doesn’t seem to mind being pulled away, given the situation. Up in his office, he figures he could use a proper briefing. 

That ‘briefing’ involved an air of directness. 

“He’s homeless, you believe,” he clarifies. 

Louie, sitting in the chair across from him, nods.

Scrooge nods as well. That needed to be discussed with the boy, of course- there was no use speculating such a serious suggestion. Still, it was a good starting point. “Do you believe he will try to rob us while staying here?” 

Louie frowns. “Kinda rude suggestion.” 

“And your answer is…” 

“No! The second I stumbled on him, he was offering me everything I had just because he thought I’d kill him for it otherwise,” he grumbles, leaning heavily back in the chair. “He doesn’t give off any sinister vibes.” 

Scrooge nods. He had to check, of course; one doesn’t get as far in life as he has without some sort of caution embedded into any tendency for recklessness. When they’d first brought Lena into their home, before the Saberwing’s had adopted her (after a long, long process of sorting through her less-than-legal citizenship status as a shadow), Webby had insisted she wouldn’t cause any problems whatsoever and was the pinnacle of innocence. Of course, she was- any harm that came from her living situation was hardly a result of her intent to do so. Though, without knowing the girl, Scrooge would have assumed otherwise. He’d heard of her the most from Bentina’s angry rants about her, which after a while, turned into a sort of boisterous affection. So, when Webby vouched for Lena, he trusted her enough to trust her friend, too. If Louie vouched for Boyd, he could trust that. 

“Alright, then. Has he mentioned any family? Or why he was on the streets?” 

Louie shakes his head. With Lena, he knew he had to handle matters quietly- she was a  _ shadow. _ The answer to handle the matter of her adoption and citizenship privately was obvious from that alone, regardless of if she was a minor. 

With Boyd… 

“Here’s the issue then, lad,” he starts. He hates it, but it needs to be acknowledged, and though Louie was the youngest member of the household- assuming Boyd wasn’t, given they were as of yet unsure of his age- he was also incredibly mature and private in his own matters. Scrooge would never wish to put more pressure on his shoulders then a boy his age deserved, but he’d brought a rather large issue into the household, and it was only fair he was in the loop regarding it. “Boyd is a minor. He’s not accompanied with any adults with a legal right to house him that we know of at this moment. We, implying heavily  _ me, _ are  _ not  _ legally allowed to house him. Regardless of whether he came here willingly or not, if he has a safe place to go that he’s n’t taking and we are keeping him from it, the word the authorities will use is ‘kidnapping’.” 

Louie’s bill drops. “But that’s-“ 

“Difficult, given tha situation. But it is tha truth. The safest way to  _ handle _ this would be ta call the CPS- ah, Child Protective Services- an’ turn him over. But-“ he pushes on, ignoring the look of outrage on Louie’s face- “-I believe it is within the kinder of option to simply  _ ask  _ the lad what his situation is. He might not want to tell me, but he might tell you.” 

Louie stares at him for a long time, arms crossed. He looks upset, but he waits until his voice can come out calm before choosing to speak. “So you want me to find out, from him, how he got this way. And then you want me to use that against him.” 

“It’s not cruel to assure him a safe, permanent place to stay. He may need to go into adoption-“ 

“No, he-“ Louie stands, sounding frustrated and looking a little lost, like he couldn’t place where the feeling was coming from. “That’s like, the  _ one  _ thing he actually told me he didn’t want.” 

The elder duck raises an eyebrow. “He said that?” 

Louie opens his bill, closes it again. He seems to think, perhaps recalling exactly what the parrot had said to him. “Um… ya. He- he did.” 

Interesting. Scrooge leans back in his chair. 

There was a lot that could be needlessly speculated from that. Louie, of course, could draw whatever conclusions he’d like- Scrooge wasn’t about to put any unnecessary burden on him. All he needed was an answer, really, to ensure both the safety and the well-being of a young kid such as him. 

Scrooge has been alive for a long, long time. He’s seen how cruel the world could be, and heard of it, too, where he had not experienced. Homelessness had never been a struggle for him, as whenever he’d been on the move from one place to another in search of wealth and adventure, he’d had a fallback, and he’d had a plan. He’d had age, and he’d earned expense. He even had support, though fluctuating, from his extensive family and his business partners. 

A young kid such as Boyd, with a stigma against adoption, sleeping in the back of an alleyway? It didn’t amount up to choice. Kids could be stubborn, of course- he can’t negate the possibility that it’s merely a patchable feud keeping Boyd away from a roof and running hot water. Though the possibility seemed slim, of course, which is why Boyd needed to tell them his housing discrepancy so Scrooge could decide from there how to sort it out. If he didn’t want adoption involved, it either meant he  _ had  _ a home to go back to already, or he was against the foster-care system or the CPS as a whole. 

Scrooge didn’t want to consider that, not based on its implications. Boyd was always covering the majority of his body… 

He runs his fingers over the table. Louie watches the action, his disdain seeping away into hesitance. 

Scrooge couldn’t very well house a child not his own longer than a week without reporting it. The repercussions, if there was a legal alternative, could financially ruin him. Which was saying a  _ lot,  _ considering he was the richest duck in the world. No matter what sort of ‘charity’ it may seem to be, the fact of hidden parties holding far more power over him in a situation such as this couldn’t be ignored while Boyd was under his roof and, as far as he was concerned, under his care. Louie stares at his lap ahead of him, seemingly coming to the wrong conclusion by his thoughtful silence. “What if he doesn’t want to tell me anything? Will you… you won’t kick him out, will you?” 

He shakes his head at the young duck. “Nay, lad. Ah’ simply need an answer. Remember, him staying here is  _ illegal.  _ That means he needs to stay  _ hidden.  _ And it’ll be easier to do that if we know a bit more.” 

It takes a few moments, but Louie nods. “Okay. I’ll go talk to him.” 

Scrooge smiles softly. “Good lad.” 

Louie had, apparently, never gotten the chance to say anything to their houseguest. Scrooge finds this out when Bentina finds him in his office to inform him Boyd was in the infirmary. 

When the boy had left, Scrooge had taken some time into searching for any missing children reported within the year either matching Boyd’s first name, or his description. He wasn’t incredibly tech-savvy, not in the way the kids were, and he almost wished that he’d asked Huey to stay behind the same as Louie so he could have the assistance. He thought about asking Gyro, next, but as the thought crossed his mind he’d managed to navigate to an existing database on missing children. 

The website was a sad thing, but looked as official as they came. There wasn’t a search-section for species, but he did look up by name, and none of the currently missing reported ‘Boyd’s, three as there were, matched the one under his roof at the moment being. He searches through two more databases with the same results. He figures two things; either Boyd was never reported missing, or he wasn’t using his real name. Or Scrooge was just bad at this. It wasn’t like he could  _ crowdsource.  _

__ Bentina appears in his office as he’s pulling up a fourth site, looking much less credible than the previous. Her expression is enough to give Scrooge proper pause. 

“Mrs. Beakley?” 

“Mr. McDuck. I figured you should know that Boyd is currently fast asleep in the infirmary.” 

He closes the search engine. “What happened?”    
“It seems he had an… attack, of sorts. The children were playing around with a board Webby had made, but I’ve already checked it out, and it seems clear. As for what caused it, the children and I are unsure. It may have been psychological,” he says, rubbing her chin in thought. “Perhaps something on the board triggered him.” 

Scrooge slides off his chair slowly before he makes his way over to her. “Psychological, you say?”

“Perhaps. It seems like he was having a panic attack of some sort, and the children informed me that he passed out. For the thought, he may have also had some sort of a reaction, perhaps a medical attack.”

“Is he alright?” 

She sighs. “I’m uncertain of that as well. If I don’t know what caused it, I can’t speak for it.” 

Bentina had a medical doctorate. If she was unsure, it more than likely was a non-medical issue. The thought of that was hurrying; being on the streets would have likely done some sort of mental damage, he could have figured, but for it to have physicalized into a strong reaction so suddenly was worrying. 

Mind made up, he leans on his cane and makes his way over to the door. “I’ll be with him down there, then. It’ll do the lad some good to not wake up alone.” 

Bentina nods, following him out. “I’ll bring you some tea and let the kids know where you are.” 

He nods. Bentina was amazing; she was a fast reactor, a quick thinker, and had expert judgment on these sorts of things. If Scrooge hadn’t offered to take the watch in the infirmary, he had no resolve to think otherwise of her doing the same. He watches her go off, grateful as ever to have her by his side. 

The infirmary door has a classic red plus marking it for easy identification, and he pushes the door open. Inside is a mostly white room, and around the corner an examination bed. He doesn’t see Boyd, so he continues through until he sees the resting room- and there, on the much softer pull-out with a blanket over him that was likely brought in from another room, was the parrotchick. He’s curled against a fully white pillow, eyes scrunched shut, yet looking to be fast asleep. 

Scrooge takes a seat in the chair across from the bed. He’s not sure when the lad will wake up, but he knew from experience that it could be terrifying to wake up alone in a place you’ve never been. He’s not sure exactly what it is the boy needs right now, but he could at least do this. 

So, he sits, waiting. He thinks about what Bentina said- how he’d had an attack, possibly psychological. 

It was possible it wasn’t. He could have some sort of a medical condition they didn’t know about. Scrooge had heard him sneeze at one point, as he led him to his room. Perhaps he was sick with something. The thought of whether or not it was contagious was worrisome, but of course, he had no way to know for sure. 

There was then the possibility that it was a panic attack of some sort. He has to wonder if the boy has any sort of a support system, how he’s been getting through life up until this point. Being a child on the streets was unimaginable, to him. How could anybody ever let that happen? It seemed preposterous. Outrageous. The thought of Boyd being forced away from a loving home, or never having one to begin with, was enough to make his fists clench tight at his sides. 

In reality, he had no idea how to go about a situation like this. Scrooge himself was a problem solver, but people, _ children, _ varied in ways to go about it. From his own experience with panic attacks, something he got when he was much younger and especially after Della disappeared, what he needed was space and assurance, and usually ice cream. When something got to him,  _ really  _ got to him, he would shut down. Now that he had a family counting on him again, he’d looked for a healthier outlet, which amounted to building a garden inside his mansion and visiting it for the soothing aroma of the flowers.

He recalled Louie having one during one of their expeditions, when he’d been locked in a room by a dwarf and it took them hours to get him out. The lad had been so quiet from behind the closed door, they were unsure if he was still breathing, and after a while he stopped talking altogether. When they finally got him out, it was clear he’d been crying, and he was exhausted beyond all measure, offering no quips or comments on the way back to the mansion. The lad stayed in bed for two whole days, and his brothers stayed with him. Scrooge had checked on him, gently peeking his head through the doorway, to see the boys watching a movie on one of their laptops without touching each other, but close nonetheless. 

Boyd was still curled tight on the bed, looking tired himself. He doesn’t make a sound, and Scrooge can’t be sure how to help. Huey and Dewey had known Louie their entire lives; they knew what he needed. Right now, Boyd didn’t have that. They couldn’t even be sure what’s caused this, let alone how to fix it, if it could be fixed. He contemplates, for a moment, hiring a child psychologist; yet, the idea is dismissed amongst the first second, as it could just as easily scare Boyd away as it would bring attention to the unaccompanied minor. 

After some time, Bentina joins him in the infirmary. She brings with her a cup of tea for him and a fluid bag, rolling across the floor from the other carewing. “Webby has informed me that Boyd did not join the rest of the children for breakfast. I should have considered that,” she snaps, likely at herself. “I heard him say it, too. He might have passed out for lack of eating.” 

Scrooge looks back over to the boy, still soundly asleep, looking no less relaxed. His face was round, and though his feathers were askew and somewhat grimy (the lad hadn’t showered the other night, it seemed), they didn’t look baggy at the skin. There were no obvious signs of malnutrition or dehydration in that alone; though he did look rather skinny, some kids were also built like twigs. He could guess food and water were hard to come by on the streets, and homeless shelters would be out of the question for a minor unless they wanted the CPS to be called and drag them back to a foster facility. Still, the result of those conditions did not readily appear from what could be seen. It wasn’t too far a reach to say Bentina was being logical for not having considered it. 

He’s about to assure her of such when she goes to inject Boyd with the IV, only for him to shoot up within an instant, letting out a startled squawk. He swats at the hand hovering over him, and a tiny fist such as that should have done little else but blow wind in Bentina’s direction- instead, the woman stumbles back, looking shocked at the force behind the swing. 

Scrooge stands, hands up, keeping his body crouched while Bentina stumbles back and Boyd presses himself into the corner of the room, stepping over the bed and onto the pillow just to reach it. His chest heaves, and his wild eyes go everywhere. 

“Boyd,” he says, slowly. “Yer still in Mcduck Manor. You passed out, so Mrs. Beakley brought you to tha infirmary,” he gestures to her. Thankfully, she had the good sense to hold her hands up as well, having dropped the IV with the swipe. He turns back to Boyd, who was watching him now, his eyes… 

Were they… 

Boyd blinks. They return to black. Or Scrooge had imaged the red that had made its way into them. He’d ask Bentina later, if she saw it, too. For now, the problem at hand was more pressing; he says to the startled boy, “are ye okay, lad?” 

Boyd says nothing. Instead, he pushes himself out of the corner, gingerly sitting back down at the edge of the bed. He grabs the pillow on his way, curling back into it as he sits. The action makes him look so young, Scrooge’s heart pangs. 

The parrot shoves his head into the pillow. He doesn’t say anything. Scrooge gives Bentina a glance; her own expression matches his, aching and unsure. She steps forward, and when Boyd doesn’t react, she sits along the edge of the bed with him. Scrooge continues to stand, but he does pick the cane he’d dropped in the scuffle off the floor. He busies himself with dusting it off as the silence prevails. Boyd has yet to remove the pillow from his face or remove the clutch he has around it, and Scrooge has to wonder how he can breathe with it over his beak like that. 

“Boyd,” Bentina starts carefully, “would you like some water?” 

Boyd shakes the pillow. It’s likely a no. Bentina taps the bed, the sound of attention, enough to indicate she was going to try again. “Would you like to talk about what happened?” 

The suggestion seems to register within the boy. He pulls the pillow down, staring at Bentina with wide, scared eyes. “What... happened?” 

“... Darling, you passed out in the middle of the hallway.” 

His eyes shoot downcast. “Oh. I- I’m sorry.”

Bentina shakes her head. “Darling, it’s alright. We aren’t upset, just concerned. We were hoping you could tell us what happened, so we could try to help.” 

Something about her words has Boyd shoving his face back into the pillow. “No, thank you.”

Scrooge’s bill drops.  _ No thank you?  _ Bentina seems just as surprised as him, her eyes scrunching. For a moment, neither adults reply, neither knowing how. 

Scrooge takes the first shot in the dark. “Lad, it's okay to let people help.”

Boyd simply grips the pillow tighter. Scrooge shoots Bentina a look of loss, and the woman nods, recognizing that it was her turn. 

“Boyd,” Bentina says, beating Scrooge to whatever he might have said. “Was there something on Webbigail’s board that… may have affected you?” 

The question seems to strike a nerve in the boy; his feathers stand up. “I- I don’t know. I recall Webby trying to show me something, but… I can’t remember what was on it.” 

“It had pictures of the McDuck family,” she explains gently. “The kids say you passed out after looking it over.” 

Boyd looks troubled. “I’m sorry.” 

“No, it- it’s quite alright, we just wanted to know what triggered this.” 

Boyd doesn’t say anything to that. He seems to be thinking, a pained look etched onto his face, but nothing seems to come of it. After a moment, his eyes close, and he clutches the pillow back over his face once again. 

Bentina hums. Scrooge wants to pitch in, but the honest truth was that she was better with kids than Scrooge was. She wasn’t perfect, but she was experienced and, unlike Scrooge- she didn’t give up once a kid started to cry. 

Watching Boyd, face completely covered by the dusty infirmary pillow, fists tight around it- Scrooge would have given him space and tried again some other time. He’d have been too scared he’d push too far. 

(He was so used to pushing too far). 

His companion, however, somehow makes her voice even more gentle than it already had been. “Young man, we only want to help you. We can’t do that if we don’t know what’s wrong. And if you don’t, either, well… would you like to find out together?” 

Her hand is extended. Boyd takes a moment, then unfurls his fists, reaching an arm out to land his tiny fingers amongst her palm, face still entirely covered. Bentina gives it a little squeeze; Boyd’s hand returns the gesture, curling barley around her fingers. 

“Would you like to tell us what’s wrong?” she tries. 

“... It’s not something you can help me with,” is the kid’s response, muffled behind the pillow. “But… I appreciate the offer.” 

Bentina considers this for long enough that Boyd pulls away from the pillow again, simply to look at her. “Are there any other adults out there that can, then? Any relatives or guardians?” 

_ Clever girl,  _ Scrooge can’t help but think, infinitely impressed by the woman before him. He tries not to let the pride seep through on his expression; that would hardly be appropriate for the situation, after all, especially not with Boyd’s quiet response. “No.” 

“No, hm?” she thinks aloud. Her hand releases Boyd’s, and the boy looks a little confused by the sudden loss, but she slowly moves it to his head. She strokes his headfeathers gently as she talks, and Boyd stares up at the movement in mesmerization. “What’s gone and happened to them?” 

Leaning into the touch, the boy doesn’t respond, at first. He seems to relax under the action, the opposite of what Louie would have done in his place. After a moment, he looks sad, like the appeal of the motion has already worn off. He ducks away from her hand, shuffling backwards on the bed. 

“I don’t really want to talk about it. I- I’m sorry,” he whines, brings his hands up to his head and scrunches his eyes. “I-If you want me to leave, I understand.” 

Scrooge shakes his head. “We aren’t gonna kick ya out, lad. Not if it’s the streets you’re headed back ta.”

Boyd’s eyes drop. He doesn’t confirm it, but he doesn’t deny it, either. Scrooge presses on, a bit more gently; “Why dontcha rest some more, eh lad? We can talk some more later.” 

Boyd lowers his hands, moving them to the blanket and picking at it tiredly. He nods, and Scrooge returns the gesture before standing and giving the child some room. 

Bentina follows him away, looking for all the world like she had something to say, yet no words come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya this chapter was slow i'm sorry i sorta needed to find a way to work in the legal stuff bc its important to address. the story will pick up very soon. also i didn't proof read this at ALL i spam wrote and i'm posting and you cant stop me


	4. every hand i shake night after night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Huey finds a robot. Boyd finds a friend. It doesn't end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is fairly dialogue heavy. There's a lot of characters in here, and I'm not very good at juggling them all. Next chapter will be much more spaced out, promise. It's also fairly short for the same reason.

Boyd is still in the infirmary when the rest of the ducks arrive back from their adventure. 

Della and Donald triumphantly carry Dewey inside, while Huey hops beside them, looking every bit as pleased as his brother. The red duckling is holding some sort of a rock, which he brings up to Louie and excitedly explains to be a defect Olympian egg that will never hatch and was rewarded to them for saving some underground city- Dewey’s doing, apparently, who brags about it incessantly. None of them look injured, so Louie nods along to their stories, glad to have them back. Webby isn’t there to greet them. Louie isn't certain where she’d run off to. 

“-It was remarkable! There was this tech there that just didn’t belong, they looked almost like Dr. Gearloose’s Lil’ Bulbs but they were horizontal and had eight legs each like robot-spiders, overkill in the design aspect really but perhaps overcompensating for the faulty design-” Huey excitedly rambles, as Dewey continues to flex in the mirror, making kissy faces at himself and his hat that read ‘Saviour Of Our World’, a slogan that no doubt Dewey was taking literally. 

Louie would laugh, or maybe even feel a tad left out, if his mind wasn’t elsewhere. 

He hasn’t seen Boyd since… whatever happened in the hallway. Louie thinks he might have had a panic attack, but there was no warning, and for the life of him Louie couldn’t think of what may have caused it. 

He’s been wondering if bringing Boyd to McDuck Manor was a good idea after all. 

His talk with Scrooge had been swimming in his mind, and he can’t help but wonder if perhaps, bringing a kid who’s been on his own on the streets for who-knows-how-long to a crowded, rich estate may have been too overwhelming for him. Was there somewhere else he could have taken Boyd? He gives that thought, too, but Scrooge’s reminder that the unapproved housing of a minor such as the parrotchick would be illegal in any situation makes bringing in outside help even more dangerous. So, he reasons, he’d done the right thing; but it doesn’t  _ feel  _ right. It might not have been what was right for Boyd, even if it was the right thing to do. 

He’d been planning to see if he was awake yet, to ask him, to  _ talk  _ to him. Louie liked his new friend. He’d just met him, but he couldn’t begin to imagine anything bad happening to him so long as Louie could help it. If staying here was too much for Boyd, and he’d be safer somewhere else- somewhere that  _ wasn’t  _ the cold streets of Duckberg- he’d help him get there. And he needed to ask Boyd how to do that. 

A part of him wishes he could just ignore everything. That Boyd could just stay with them, and they’d have a new addition to the household, and everything would be okay. 

As Huey rambles about their escapade, Louie tries to zone back in. To ignore the nagging feeling in his gut that wants to get to the bottom of things. Huey was the detective, if any of them- as much as Dewey liked the showmanship and Louie liked the reward of the job, it was his hatted brother that knew how to navigate the path to an answer. 

So, mind busy, he does his best to zone into what his brother is saying and engage. Whatever Huey had found, he was explaining it extensively, understanding it, learning from it. He loves it- the unknown, the missing pieces- that much was obvious, and Louie loves that about his brother. 

(He doesn’t love the not-knowing as much as Huey does.)

“Do you know what they were?” he asks, hopping up on the couch, giving his brother as much attention as he can muster. 

Huey thinks this over. He puts the egg down at his feet and lifts his hat, revealing both his SJW and atop it, a messy piece of technology. It’s clearly broken, bashed in at the side, and judging by Dewey’s prideful look in the corner, it was probably incapacitated at his hands. The silver bot had multiple legs, each dangling limply against Huey’s hands, and it had one beady eye that was black and glistening. “No idea. I can’t even tell what its function might be. I’ll try to ask Dr. Gearloose about it tomorrow if he’s in.” 

Della returns to the room, seemingly looking for her boys, and her eyes light up when they land on the tech. “Oooh, did you say you were going to ask Gyro? That’s a great idea, honey! But do me a favor,” she asks, leaning down to better face them and placing a hand to the side of her mouth like it was a secret, “ask him why he likes black licorice so much. I just- I gotta know.” 

“Sure mom,” says Huey, unphased by the request. Louie nods, giving her a weird look, but she ruffles both their heads and whistles her way out of the room. As she walks, she shouts, “Bentina says that dinner is ready in ten minutes, boys!” and exits down the hall. 

When she leaves, Dewey hops away from the mirror and jumps up on the couch to where his brothers are. He looks around wildly. “Hey, where’s your friend? I wanna show him my cool hat. It’ll make a great second impression, I think.” 

Louie doesn’t bat an eye. “It won't. But uh, he’s sleeping.” 

“It’s five PM.”

He shrugs. His brothers give each other looks. 

“How long is he staying here again?” asks Huey. 

“I dunno. Long as he gets to, I guess.” 

The answer is clearly not enough. Huey huffs at his indirectness. Another mystery, and of course, Huey’s first instinct is to solve it. “Louie, if there’s something going on with Boyd that means he needs to stay here for whatever reason, that’s fine. You know it is, I mean, when Lena stayed here none of us batted an eye. So…” 

Louie stares him over, noting both his and Dewey’s open, curious expressions. He knows he can trust his brothers, and that he should tell them the truth about Boyd, but the thing was- it wasn’t his truth to tell. Boyd probably didn’t want the entire manor knowing he was homeless, right? Of course, he didn’t think to ask. Still… 

He sighs. He can’t keep his brothers in the dark, that wasn’t fair to them. Hopefully Boyd wouldn’t mind. “Okay, fine. But don’t be weird about it. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go.” 

Dewey opens his mouth, but Huey beats him to it. “Where’d you meet him, again?” 

“... in an alleyway.” 

Dewey closes his mouth. He takes his hat off, like it was somehow less funny now. Huey thinks this over. “Oh,” says the oldest triplet, after a moment. “Well. I’m glad he found you, then.” 

Louie shoves him lightly with his foot. “I told you not to be weird about it.” 

“It’s not weird! I’m calling you a good friend. Don’t make it weird.” 

Louie rolls his eyes. Dewey, still wringing his hat in his hands, looks distraught. “Oh, man. I asked him for his Twitter.” 

After dinner, Louie asks for permission to bring some food to Boyd. Mrs. Beakley, who’d made the mix of mashed potatoes, peas, gravy and chicken, gives him a pleased looking nod; so, he grabs a handful of leftovers and ducks away, headed to the infirmary with a small plate roughly the size of what he’d eaten. Webby catches up to him as he walks, surprisingly quiet during the dinner. He hadn’t seen where she’d gone off to after the hallway incident, and while he’d noticed the absence of her presence, he’d been too preoccupied to give it much attention. 

“Hey, Louie,” she starts, somewhat uncomfortable. “I was looking over my lineage board, yano. After Boyd passed out and Granny took him to get some rest. Um,” her fingers twiddle as she speaks, and Louie stops walking, giving her the time to find her words. After a moment, she has them. “I think he was looking at the picture of Dr. Gearloose when he passed out.” 

Louie raises an eyebrow. “Gyro?” 

She nods. “I think so. It’s either him or Launchpad, or maybe Gladstone Gander? They were all in the area he was staring at. I think. Look, I don’t know for sure, but I swear, his eyes turned red when he saw the photo.” 

Louie gaps. “His eyes turned  _ red.”  _

__ “Yes!” 

He shakes his head. “Webby, I don’t think that happened.” 

She crosses her arms. “I swear, it did. I don’t know what it means, but we need to keep an eye on him. Do you want some backup?” 

“Backup- Webby, no! Look, he’s gotta be hungry,” he says, gesturing to the food in his hands, “I wanna bring him this before it gets cold. Hopefully he’s awake to eat it.” 

The girl frowns. Louie can’t help but frown back, unsure of what she’s suggesting. She seems distracted- like she’s trying to figure out how to phrase something, but keeps losing it. Whatever it is seems important, at least to her, but Louie can’t help but fester the protective bubble in his throat. Because, come on,  _ red eyes?  _ It wasn’t just ridiculous, it was an accusation. Webby continues to look frustrated as she grapples for words while a thought stews in Louie, one that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

“Look, have you- have you ever seen someone have a panic attack before?” 

She hesitates. Then, the duckling shakes her head. 

Louie sighs. “That’s probably what he had. They affect people differently, but this situation is new to him, and we don’t really know him well enough to know for sure what caused it. But don’t treat it like a mystery, okay? He doesn’t need to be ostracized for it.” 

“I don’t know what that word means but I am not doing that!” She insists, looking upset. 

After a moment, he concedes. “Look, Webbs, just don’t make a thing out of this, okay? You were probably just worked up because you didn’t know what was happening and thought you saw… that.” 

She pouts. Then, after a moment, nods. Louie feels a little bad, but he accepts the out and continues to his destination, leaving her standing in the hall, watching him go.

When he gets to the door, he knocks awkwardly, even though it was never locked. He doesn't get a response, but he’s not sure where in the infirmary Boyd is, so if he was further in he might not have heard it. Pushing the door open, Louie waddles through the first care wing, calling out for his friend as he goes. 

Boyd had to be hungry by now, right? He didn’t eat breakfast, not to his knowledge, and he wouldn’t have had lunch if he was in the infirmary. Louie couldn’t stand the thought of even a few hours without something to eat, and he wasn’t sure exactly how often Boyd got the chance to. The food on the plate has gotten cold by now, he’s sure, but mashed potatoes usually taste better cold, in his opinion. Chicken, not so much, but eh. Hopefully he’ll still eat it, even if just a little. 

He checks the next room. Still no Boyd. How many rooms in the carewing were there? Both curious and mildly concerned with the lack of response, he continues down until he reaches the end of the hall, the only one with guest rooms for patients to rest in. 

No Boyd. 

Well. Maybe he woke up, then. 

_ Without telling anyone?  _ A nagging part of his brain berrets. 

_ Sure,  _ he snaps back.  _ He doesn’t owe us anything. Maybe he went back to his room.  _

__ So, he backtracks, headed somewhere new. He hopes he’s right, and keeps an eye out for the parrot as he makes his way to the room. It’s not far- just two corridors away, really. The short trek leaves him a tad anxious, though. 

What if he left? Like- like back to the alleyways left? Would he do that? Maybe. Maybe he woke up scared, and wanted to go back to what was familiar. No, no, that’s stupid. He could just be in the bathroom. Or a different room entirely. There are a ton of rooms, after all, way too many to be precise. He could be in any of them. And Louie is totally  _ not  _ over-worried by his absence, because he’s probably just looking around and totally fine. 

Except, with a knock to the door that gently swings open, it’s clear Boyd isn’t in his room. 

He hums. Honestly, the worry aside, he’s not quite sure where to go from there. His first thought is,  _ well, if he’s gone, I hope he at least ate something first.  _

__ His second is that he could hear him laughing from just down the hall, and, oh. He’s in their room. More laughter, and his brothers must be with him. 

Okay. So, Boyd probably woke up and heard his brothers came home, then went so say hi. Or his brothers found Boyd in his own room and asked if he wanted to come say hi. He shrugs, because it doesn’t matter- Huey was the deducer. He had his result. 

He heads to his room. As usual, it's open just a crack. Boyd is sitting on the bottom bunk bed next to Dewey, while Huey sits cross-legged on the floor, looking annoyed. 

Dewey is giggling. “C’mon, man! It looks cute on it!” 

“Sure, but I’m trying to figure out how it works,” the eldest triplet says with patience, which doesn’t come across in his expression. Dewey shrugs, then puts back on his ‘champion’ hat, and Louie laughs at the imagery of the robot spider wearing it, much to Huey’s chagrin. 

Boyd’s eyes meet him at the doorway at the sound. “Louie! Hello. Huey and Dewey are showing off their mission findings to me. This robot is truly fascinating.” 

Louie nods. “Oh, ya. He showed me before. You still tryna figure it out, Hue?” 

Huey nods, not looking up from the bot. Boyd looks amused by his focus, while Dewey looks to the plate in his hands. “Second serving?” 

He blinks, then realizes what his brother is referring to. “No, actually, though I’m always down. I brought this up to see if Boyd was hungry,” he explains, then turns to the boy in question. “I wasn’t sure if you’d eaten anything or not.”

Boyd reaches out, and Louie hands him the plate, fork at the side. He sniffs it. “Wow. That smells so good. Thanks, Louie!” 

Louie nods casually, sitting down on the floor next to his brother, but he can’t help the pleased smile on his beak. He focuses on Huey’s tinkering while Boyd picks at the food, eyes wide. He tilts his head to Dewey as he says, “this is delicious! Have you tried this?” 

Dewey blinks. “Ya dude. We all ate at dinner. That’s all yours.” 

“Are you sure? It’s a lot of food. You don’t mind?” 

“... no, you- you go ahead. Louie eats three times that amount at dinner, usually.” 

“Not true!” 

“Is too!” 

Boyd looks between them before nodding. He continues to eat quietly after that, but Dewey quiets down too, eyes a little ways off. 

Huey has taken to inspecting the wires inside of the robot. They stick out every which way, and the red triplet lets out a sigh. “This wiring is a mess. Whoever did this clearly just shoved this thing together with no care. It’s like it’s parts came straight from the trash. Look,” he pulls up a wire, “this one has a stain on it. Like, an oil stain. Whoever made this, I have… got some questions.” 

He puts the wire back. The action causes a spark to fly out of the robot, and Huey yelps, hopping back. 

The lights on the robo-spider begin to glow. For a moment, it seems that’s all it will do, but it’s legs slowly begin to twitch until it’s starting to jut around the floor slowly, sparks flying. 

The boys all step back from it, watching with wide eyes. Boyd, however, has put his plate down on the bed and hopped to the floor, closer to the machine.

“Boyd! Get back!” Huey shouts. “These things shoot lasers! I can’t tell if they’re activated or not, or what it’s doing; it could be dangerous!” 

Boyd looks between Huey and the robot, still dragging itself pitifully across the carpet, moving back and forth with seemingly no direction. 

He crouches down in front of it. “Hi there,” he greets. “I’m Boyd. A definitely real boy.” 

Dewey scoffs from the bed. “Dude, it can’t hear you. It’s a machine.” 

The parrot twitches, but he keeps his eyes on the spider bot. He leans closer down to it. “You look injured. You were trying to hurt people, weren’t you? Do you remember why you were doing that?” 

The spider stops crawling. It spins, slowly, so it’s black, spherical eye is on Boyd. The parrot smiles, a little sadly. “It’s okay if you don’t. Maybe you can start over. Do you have a name?” 

Louie watches as the robot stares at Boyd blankly. He turns his head to Huey, who is watching in mesmerization, then Dewey, in alert. Louie looks back to the robot, noticing again it’s glowing lights along its back, all in blue. 

All in blue except for one. One, which was red, and blinking, and… 

“Recording,” he says aloud, then louder, “It’s recording.” 

Huey follows his finger to the red light, eyes wide. “Whoever built this might be able to see out of its eye if it's openly transmitting. We need to shut it down.” 

“I’m not camera ready!” Cries Dewey, fiddling with his hair. “Okay, there. Now I’m good.” 

Boyd shakes his head, capturing their attention again. “It’s not hurting anybody.”

The robot is, to its credit, sitting quietly on the floor, continuing to stare at Boyd with it’s one, spherical eye. 

“I can smash it again,” Dewey offers from the bed. 

“No!” Boyd cries, looking appalled by the idea. “It might be able to change. Maybe we could-” 

“Boyd, get down!” Huey cries, as the bot begins to glow again. Boyd’s eyes widen before he ducks, and the robot shoots off a laser right where his head had been just moments before, blasting instead into the wall behind him. The wall cracks and splinters, and Dewey hops off the bed and stomps on it with his foot- the laser shuts off at the assault. 

Quickly, Louie dives to their ‘weapons chest’- a literal chest with an assortment and arsenal Scrooge would kill them if he knew they had- and pulls out a metal baseball bat. He tosses it to Dewey, who flounders to catch it but finally segments his grip on it before striking down on the bot. It stops scurrying, caving in with the weight of the bat, and it’s lights slowly start to go out. 

The room is quiet. Dewey is too busy catching his breath to make quips. Huey scoops up the remains of the robot, looking mournful at the lost chance to research it more. Louie closes the chest, assuming they wouldn’t need anything else out of it. 

Boyd stares at the remains of the robot, something heartbroken in his eyes. 

“Uh… Boyd?” Louie starts, confused by the reaction- the whole interaction, really. “Are you okay?” 

Boyd blinks. The sad look is gone, replaced by a blank, if tired, stare. “Yes… I’m not hurt. I got out of the way in time.” 

Dewey whistles. “Woooow. How are we gonna explain the giant hole in the wall to Uncle Scrooge?” 

“We’ll have to tell him what happened,” Huey says, looking as though he’d rather not do that. “He needs to know. If that thing transmits everything it records, who knows what information it’s leaked, or who’s receiving it. Scrooge needs to know.” 

“What?  _ Boo. _ No, we can- like, fix this,” Dewey says, rubbing his chin. “Maybe get some. Plaster, or something.” 

“Dewey, no. We can’t just-” 

Louie tunes them out. Boyd has backed away from the bed, closer to Louie- or maybe just closer to the door. Either way, Louie asks again, “hey, are you okay? I- I don’t mean hurt, I mean, like-” he makes a vague hand gesture. Boyd’s blank expression doesn’t change, but his eyes droop downwards. 

“I think I’m gonna get some rest,” he says quietly. “Thanks for bringing me food. It was really good.” 

Louie bites his underbill, nodding before he can stop his instinct to ask Boyd to stay, or to ask him why he’s upset. Maybe what happened was overstimulating. He could understand that. Boyd slips past him, and Louie pokes his head out of the doorway. He watches Boyd make his way to his designated room and carefully step inside, closing the door behind him. 

When he looks back into their room, only to find a hole in their wall, a robot shattered in Huey’s arm, and an argument brewing between his two older brothers- he slides down against the wall, suddenly exhausted. 


	5. each desperate drive for elusive peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The robo-spiders fight back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a bit more action-based towards the end, so I hope it's easy enough to follow along with. I'm not the best at writing action.

_ “First time jitters-”  _

_ The voice means nothing to him. And he thinks, he thinks- it should. But he can’t place it, can’t understand what it means.  _

_ “First time jitters-”  _

_ It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. He wasn’t supposed to hurt anyone.  _

_ “First-” _

_ The decimation, he remembers. But it feels wrong, like someone else entirely. Like it happened to someone else entirely. Like it happened to him, and he was someone else entirely.  _

_ The voices stop. Boyd thinks, knows. He’s dreaming. He’s not, though- he can’t dream. He’s a robot. He’s fake. He’s not real. He can’t dream. He can’t dream. He can’t dream.  _

_ (Then what is this?)  _

__

__ He shoots up, the feeling of his eyes burning jostling him up. They shoot open, and without willing- a laser shoots out. After a moment of shock, he throws his hands up over his face, willing them to shut off.  _ Go away, go away,  _ he begs silently, trying to mentally disarm himself, and he feels a switch click at the back of his head. Hesitantly, he cracks open an eye- nothing happens. He collapses against the wall his bed is pressed against in relief, then immediately shoots back up after assessing where he’d just been looking. 

There were two small yet distinct holes at the side of his room, a small jet of steam rising from each puncture. In panic, he unplugs his charging cord from himself and scrambles to the laser-burnt wall, climbing up on the dresser below it and gingerly peering through them. 

The holes continue, penetrated by his momentary mishap, through multiple layers of the mansion’s walls. He can’t even tell where they stop. He can see into the room next to him- empty, though very green, with a clover on the wall- and he steps down away from the sight. 

Well. Like nobody would notice  _ that.  _ The laser marks were high up, aimed from where he’d been looking when he first woke up, his battery still only working at half capacity. There was a slim chance nobody would look up, at least not if the rooms were all vacant, as they seemed to be on his side of the hall. 

If, buts, and maybes. He should just apologize, own up to it. He should tell them the truth. 

(And what if they-) 

He’s done resting (charging) for now. His memories were all defunct, and whenever he tried to power down, they fused inside of him, melding and melting away, making sense but not enough, not for him. Boyd sighs, unplugging himself from the wall, running a hand over his beak. 

He was a real boy. He  _ was.  _ But still, he knew- that wasn’t enough. 

That robo-spider had stared right at him and fired. 

(It was like staring in a mirror). 

Boyd gets changed. The robot had attacked- that’s why they- it- had been destroyed. It had little to do with it being a robot. Right? He pulls a sweater over his head, one that had been pulled out for him- red, with two drawstrings that he couldn’t help but take a moment and fiddle with, hesitant to leave the room. 

There were a few reasons for this. 

For one, the shame of his weapons misfire. He’d damaged the McDuck home, on accident but nonetheless. This wasn't the first time his weapons had activated randomly, but it wasn’t an often occurrence, either. His memories- they’d activated something in him, something locked under the many re-writes to his programming, something he can’t remember or be sure is real any more. It scared him. He’s lucky it hadn’t happened in the hallway the other day- but he hadn’t remembered anything, then. He’d just… shut off. 

He doesn't understand, and it frustrates him, and he finds himself sighing alone in his room once more. 

For two, then, stems his hesitancy to impede in their space any longer. This mansion was huge, but it was  _ busy.  _ Everyone seemed really nice, but Boyd has a hard time believing there’s not something more to them offering him a place to stay. He hadn’t understood what the  _ last  _ person who’d wanted him to stay with him had wanted until it was almost too late. There was a chance things could go wrong like that again, and he knew it, even if he couldn't help but feel safe here. 

Then came the third thing. 

Was he safe here?    
If- if they knew what Boyd was, would they still believe he was a real boy? Would they (they  _ wouldn’t-)  _ cast him out, or treat him the same way they had the robo-spider? If Boyd lost control of his weapons again, unsure why it was even happening to begin with or how to stop it; and he hurt someone- would they-

(They wouldn’t, they wouldn’t, they _ wouldn’t-)  _

_ (Would they?)  _

He hesitates at the door. Screwing his eyes shut, he takes a deep breath. He doesn’t  _ need  _ it, but it stabilizes him, and he was built to breathe regardless. By a bad man, but- regardless. 

He wasn’t bad. 

(But-)

He makes his way down the hallway. Good things about this place- being out of the weather was nice. When he was in the alleys, and it started to rain, he’d get an awful headache, and his glitches would get worse. He’d start to sneeze, a product of his malfunctions, his systems itching to restart all over again. But the mansion was warm and guarded, and it was filled with nice people- much nicer then he’d known ever, really. Though he was worried, he also remembered how kind Louie had been to him, some roughed-up kid on the streets who’d accidentally scared the heck out of him, covered in dirt and with nothing but a stack of cards and a tablecloth that held his charging ports. Louie had still sat down with him and played cards with him, and invited him to this sheltered place with his family. 

A good thing, but still… Boyd had been too trusting before. 

According to his internal alarm- 10:04 PM, but after a quick conversion to Duckberg’s time zone- his alarm was pre-set to Tokoyolk, for whatever reason, and he couldn’t figure out how to change it- he put the world at 9:04 AM. He wasn’t sure who was awake, but he couldn’t figure anybody to really need to sleep past 8. He heads for the kitchen, simply curious to see if anybody is there- built in with heat signatures, he could just  _ check,  _ but a part of him worried about glitching if he pulled out that function. 

He waves when he sees Webby at the kitchen table. She seems to be the only one there. She waves back, and Boyd pulls up a chair and looks at her assortment spread out on the table. A grappling hook, a glowing dagger, goggles of some sort, and a rope. 

He blinks. “You got a busy morning planned?” 

She picks up the rope. Holds it taut for a moment, then returns it lax to the table. “No. Just doing some inventory.” 

He stares at her collection of items. “At the kitchen table?” he asks, slightly confused. 

She nods. “I was cleaning the dagger and the lens on my night-vision goggles. Granny wont let me take any chemicals out from under the sink unless I promise not to leave the room.” 

Nodding, he smiles. Her granny- Mrs. Beakley- had been very kind to him. Everyone had been in this household, really. Still, growing up with her must have been nice. A solid presence like hers was something he’d been unwittingly longing for for years. Webby was lucky to have her, just as the triplets were lucky to have each other, and their own parents- from what he understood, Della was their mother, though he’d seen her only in passing, and Donald was the uncle who raised them, though he’d not seen him at all as of yet. Scrooge was their uncle, though Boyd figured there were one or two ‘great’s in there. 

It was a full household. Boyd can’t help it if he feels a little out of place, especially after the events of yesterday. He sinks back in the chair a little, trying not to stay hung up on it, but Webby must notice the smile sink off his face. “You… okay?” 

“Hmm? Oh. Ya,” he says, but still droops down onto the table. “Just thinking.” 

“About?” 

He stares up at her. She stares back easily. Slightly uncomfortable, he twiddles his fingers against the tabletop. “... just. Stuff, I guess.” 

She looks curious. “Like what?” 

He stares at his lap. He can feel her eyes on him, and the silence is patience, but he really doesn’t know what to say. He stops drumming the table, sitting up. “Like… stuff. I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t- I don’t know how to explain. I’m not really used to talking about stuff.” 

Webby makes a noise at the back of her throat, a little hum that makes Boyd feel like he’s under attack, even if there’s no malice behind it. “Okay,” she says easily. “That’s fine. You wanna help me scrape the gunk off my grappling hook?” 

“Um. Sure.” 

She hands it to him, and he picks up the scrape he sees off to the side, getting to work after a moment of needless deliberation. He knows how to do it perfectly- he can see exactly where rocks had caught on the metal and formed tiny dents on its grips, and he was sure of exactly where to push the metal against it to prop it back into place without any extra resources. Small calculations, really. He gets to work while Webby works at her dagger, sticking out her tongue on the rough parts. He doesn’t ask why these materials are so in use- he figures it’s not his business, and he’s not really sure if he wants to know. They were adventures- he assumes that’s it. 

But he doesn’t like this silence either. He wonders if she does, if she’s too focused on her work to notice his contemplation. He’s fine with quiet, at least most of the time. He opens his beak, then closes it again, thinking better of it. He can try to be friendly when she’s not holding a sharp object. Ya, that’s a good plan. 

“You’re quiet,” Webby observes. 

He could laugh. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to have a conversation or not. I didn’t want to distract you.” 

“Please,” she waves a hand, “my mind is a temple. I can multitask.” 

A smile is back on his face. “Cool. Me too, I think. So, how often do you clean these things?” 

She waves the dagger. Boyd can’t help following it with his eyes. “Pretty often. I get them dirty more often than my other equipment.” 

“You have other equipment?” he asks. 

Her eyes go wild. “Wanna see?” 

“Well-” he starts, about to point out that that would be the opposite of multitasking, but she’s already pushed herself off the chair and run off. He puts down the grappling hook gently, and lowers himself to the floor. He follows after her, needing to run, since she was practically already out of sight. He’s not fully sure where they’re headed, but Webby doesn’t particularly wait for him to catch up. She turns to see if he’s following, bouncing excitedly as she does so, and he is, so she keeps going. Passing by the triplet’s room, he sticks his head in quickly, curious to see if anybody is awake. Huey is on the floor, fiddling with the dysfunctioning ( _ dead) _ robo-spider with some tools. Dewey is still asleep. Louie is playing on his phone on his bunk. It’s Huey that notices his face there. “Morning, Boyd.” 

“Morning, Huey! Louie! Oh, and tell Dewey I said ‘good morning’ when he wakes up, okay?” 

“You sound out of breath,” Louie notes from the bed, phone lowered. 

He opens his beak, but Webby calls from the hall, “Boyd! You coming?” and Louie’s eyes narrow. Huey waves, and he smiles back, giving off a quick  _ talk later!  _ before he ducks back out of the room and after Webby again. 

They stop a few hallways away. She pulls down an attic door and offers for him to go up first. Half-nervous and half-excited, he climbs up, careful of the slightly wobbly wood. 

The attic is  _ filled.  _ Books and board games on every shelf littering the walls, boxes strewn across the floor filled to the brim with various items. It’s cluttered, but cozy- Boyd watches as Webby pushes a shelf over, revealing an assortment of weapons on an arsenals rack. He gaps at it, and she puffs her chest out at the sight. 

“Nice, huh?” 

Boyd tries to be polite. “Why do you… need so many weapons?” 

“Well, my Granny likes to keep me prepared. She was always so worried for my safety. Now that she lets me do more of my  _ own _ thing, I like to stay prepared, too. Adventuring with Mr. McDuck can get pretty dangerous.” 

She closes the arsenals, pushing it back into place. As though the shelf weighs nothing, she says casually, “I don't get to use most of the stuff in there very often. I feel safer knowing it's there and I know how to use them, at the very least. I just… want to keep my family safe, you know?”    
Boyd feels his expression soften. He’d been tense at the array of weapons, thinking only of their ability to do harm- but Webby’s intentions were clearly good. Feeling bad for having had any apprehension towards her, he ducks his head. “You’re amazing, Webby,” he admits. 

She stares at him. When he looks back up, he nearly flinches in surprise. She’d slipped on a pair of heavy goggles and was staring at him with an expression hidden by her sudden headwear.

“Uh… what’s that?” 

She’s silent for a moment. “Thermal goggles,” she says, voice a bit harder than it had been a moment before. 

He blinks. Thermal… oh. Boyd wouldn’t have a heat signature. 

She stares at him like she’s staring at a villain. “You’re not who you say are, are you?” 

He swallows hard, an action of habit more than functionality. 

They’re silent for a moment. 

Then, blow them; “Webby! Help!” 

Louie.  _ Screaming.  _

Within an instant, the subject is dropped, the googles cast aside. Something was wrong- Webby’s strong voice has a warble of panic to it as she pushes her arsonal back open without hesitance. “That was Louie,” she says, snatching an axe in record time and discarding the need to close the access to the rack entirely. She drops the attic stairway, bounding down the steps; as Boyd follows, she halts, holding up her hands. “No, no, no- you stay.” 

He balks. “What? No! I want to help.” 

She stalks towards him dangerously. “I don't know who you are or what you are,  _ Boyd,  _ but I will deal with you later. Just… stay here, okay? Whatever’s wrong is probably dangerous-” 

Another scream from down the hall. She clenches her fists. Then, she shoves the axe at his chest, causing Boyd to shoot his arms into the air, defenseless. 

“Stay. Here,” is her final warning before she takes off down the hallway, leaving Boyd to slowly lower his arms, and his head, in defeat. 

He waits. And waits. Honestly, he tried, he did- but when he hears another cry for help, one that sounds painfully familiar, he grips his head feathers and tugs the notion to  _ follow orders _ out of his head. 

He runs. Towards the sound, because his friends need help. He  _ can’t  _ just sit idly by. 

_ “You were built to follow orders,”  _ a voice in his head growls, certainly not his own, and Boyd quite literally trips at the intrusion. 

“Who was that?” he asks aloud, but of course, there’s no one there. He knows this even as he asks, but the voice was so  _ loud,  _ and he can’t place it at all. 

_ “You were built to follow orders.  _ My  _ orders.”  _

__ Boyd staggers back to his feet, talons digging into the carpet, trying to shake the scattered memory off. It didn’t make sense- or, or it did but if he followed it down the rabbit hole, if he chased after it’s meaning-

His eyes burn, and he closes them just a second too late, the lasers’ having shot out at their own accord. Boyd panics, shoving himself backwards back into the wall, eyes covered by his hands. He hears another scream in the distance, but the motor running within him is too loud to make out who it is. 

_ “-orders-”  _

_ “No!” his own voice cries, terrified. Defiant. “I didn’t want this! I don’t want this!”  _

_ “What you want is irrelevant. You are machine. You are mine.”  _

__ Boyd pushes himself off the wall shakily. “No,” he grits out, letting go of his eyes, opening them. More lasers shoot out, and he shuts them quickly, whimpering as he falls back against the floor. “N-no. I’m not. I’m a real boy. I’m  _ not a weapon.”  _

__ The hallway does not respond. Another yell sounds off from far away. Boyd wants to be there, wants to  _ help.  _ His mind is shattered- he can’t place faces to the memory, the audio playing like a distorted, angry clip in his memory processor, plugged in there under file after deleted file. His mind is trying to reboot something that just isn't there anymore, and- 

Oh. That’s why he’s glitching, isn’t it? A sudden sadness creeps through him, but he knows he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. He knows what he needs to do. 

But first, he needs to help his friends. 

_ I’m a real boy,  _ he insists to himself.  _ And I’m going to help my friends.  _

__ He opens his eyes, and no lasers erupt. Letting out what might have been a whoop of joy if he hadn’t practically sagged against the wall in relief, he claws his way up and, shakily, chases after the noises. 

When Boyd gets there, his eyes widen. Stuck under webbed, metallic nets, were the triplets. Louie’s bill drops when he sees Boyd, spitting out part of the net he’d been chomping down on, clearly trying to bite his way through his entrapment while Huey works at one end with a pocket knife and Dewey did his best to pull his end apart by hand. “Boyd! Get back!” 

Boyd freezes. “What happened?” 

Huey answers. “The robo-spiders!” 

“The- What?” he gaps, remembering the size of the robot they’d brought back and judging the large, shining net in front of him. 

“They came back! For robo-spider vengeance!” Dewey cries, continuously tugging at the metal imprisonment. Boyd frowns, looking it over. It was only the three of them in there. 

“Where’s Webby?” he asks. The boys frown. 

A shout down the hall. Boyd gaps.  _ Webby, _ he realizes. He turns back to the triplets. “Stay there. I’m gonna go find Webby.” 

The boys stare at him. “We’re trapped… under a  _ net!  _ Where would we go, Boyd?” Dewey cries. 

“Go get Scrooge! Or our mom! Or our uncle! Or our ghost butler! Or Mrs. Beakley!” Huey yells, ignoring his brother and the look he sends his way. 

“Any adult!” Louie adds. 

Boyd nods, unsure as to where the adults  _ were  _ if they hadn’t yet shown up. He takes off towards the kitchen, where he’d heard Webby call out. Careful not to make a sound, he listens- but he can’t hear anything else. 

He closes his eyes and feels for the heat signatures in the house, giving his systems control in a haste to locate her. The triplets show up in his heat-vision in their net in the living room- there were four bodies piled close together in the front yard, much bigger than the kids so likely adults themselves, and another large heat signature in the driveway. Then a signature about the size of the triplets just past the kitchen in the hall that connected it to the boys’ rooms. 

There was an adult heat signature with her. Boyd opens his eyes and runs after her. He knows the triplets told him to get an adult, but there was one with her, right? Maybe they could help. Besides, the rest were in the front yard, opposite the direction Webby was in. And Webby was moving, he could tell- she wasn’t static like the rest of them, nor was the adult with her, so it’s more likely to Boyd that they’re the only ones not under one of those nets. Rounding past the kitchen, he stares wide eyed at the battle in front of him. 

For one, Webby was kicking ass. She was karate chopping robo-spiders left and right. Boyd’s beak drops when a spider lunges at her face and she ducks, only to kick it in the middle of a flip and land on two more on the way down, smushing them and popping the legs off. Another comes at her and she brings up the axe, deflecting it into the wall. Noting almost immediately that she’s got this handled, Boyd’s eyes are drawn to the next big problem- the giant robo-spider that the little ones keep emitting from. 

It’s sleek and black, like a pod, with one large red eye. It’s enormous body towers over the cabinet leaning against the wall, and Boyd watches as the giant robot grabs the thing like it weighs nothing and chucks it at Webby. 

With no time to think, Boyd activates his rocket thrusters and slams into Webby. He’s half-worried she’ll stab him with the axe for surprising her, but when the cabinet comes down directly where they’d been just a second ago, they’re both too stunned to react to each other. 

“Boyd?” Is all Webby can say. 

“Hi. I am so sorry for not staying put,” his words come out rushed, because they’re still in danger. “I hope you’ll forgive me.” 

She stares at him for a second, then shoves his head down, ducking with him. A robo-spider goes flying over them, slamming into the wall. Boyd stares at it, noticing it’s holding something- he grabs Webby’s hand and pulls her out of the way, just before a net erupts above them where the spider had gone flying. Webby gasps for breath at the near miss while Boyd finds it in him to push himself off the floor and glare angrily at the giant spider. 

“Why are you doing this?” He asks it, somewhat desperately. He can feel his hands clenched at his sides and is idly aware of Webby slicing another robot behind her apart with her axe. The giant spider stares at him, and for a long moment, nothing happens. 

Then, the small spiders stop lunging. They beep in synch, following a pattern on the large one’s head, and stand down after each emitting a low-pitch tone. Webby clutches the axe tight, then spins towards the giant, aiming her weapon. 

“Wait!” Boyd stops her. 

She glares, axe still head high, but does not swing it. 

The spider lowers itself to the floor, it’s legs buckling. The kids stare wide-eyed as the one large, red eye of the spider lifts, a grey hand pushing it up from inside like a door. A man steps out of the machine, sliding down the smooth frame of the robot and smiling like he’d just won some kind of contest. 

“It is about  _ time  _ I found you, kid! At McDuck Manor, no less?” The man blows a raspberry, making a thumbs-down gesture as he does so. “Lame, kid. Real lame. Have you been here the whole time? It is gonna be soooo embarrassing for me if you’ve been here the  _ whole  _ time.” 

The man takes a step forward, and Boyd takes a step backwards, right into Webby. The girl had done the opposite of lowering her axe at the reveal of the man; she holds it ready to strike. “What do you want, Beaks?” 

The parrot raises his hands in mock-surrender. “Hey, put down the sharp wood chopper, there, kid, or I’ll have to get the Spider-Beaks to net you for realsies. I’m just here for Boyd.” 

Webby’s eyes flit between the two of them while Boyd stands frozen by her side. “Why?” she asks, distrusting. 

Mark laughs. “Why? ‘Cause he’s my  _ son. _ Who ran away from home. I mean, what kind of a kid runs away from a mansion  _ just  _ to go to another mansion? One without any cool technology or ski-ball pools or arcades or anything! What kind of a trade-off is that?” 

Boyd stares at the parrot in front of him. His memories were mostly incoherent, mostly destroyed, mostly forgotten. 

_ Mostly.  _

If there’s anything Boyd remembers, it’s that Mark Beaks was  _ not  _ his dad. 

He hasn’t spoken, fear and anger taking hold of him and clamping his beak shut, much to the smug appraisal on Mark’s face. The adult looks about to speak when the duckling shakes her head, clearly doing the math in her head despite Boyd’s silence. 

Webby speaks for him, stepping a little in front of him this time. “Since when have  _ you _ had a kid?” 

A scoff, and Mark crosses his arms, any amusement on his face replaced quickly with boredom. “Uh, I’ve always had him? Look, just step aside kiddo, this doesn’t concern you. Just me and my son here, right, little man?” 

Boyd glares, suddenly furious. His voice comes out less strong than he’d have hoped it to. “I… I am  _ not  _ your son.” 

Mark blinks dumbly. “Uh, you kind of are, though. Look, I get it, you’re in your rebellious years. But you can’t run away every time we have an argument!” 

Boyd remembers that argument well. His fear is a remnant of that fight, and the fire in his eyes smoulders some. He looks down, eyes closed, trying to block it out, trying to not  _ glitch-  _

__ “He doesn’t want to go with you,” Webby says, snapping them both out of it. “So you’ll be leaving now, Mr. Beaks. Without Boyd.” 

Mark laughs. “That’s cute, kid. But uh, no. I came all this way! I could have brought the cops into this but I kept it on the DL because I’m cool, but keeping my kid here without telling me is uh, what’s the word?  _ Kidnapping?  _ Uh-yah, so, buzz of.” 

“He ran away from you!” She points out, clearly having put two and two together. 

Mark flaps his hands in a mocking gesture. Webby growls. 

Boyd stares, unsure of what else to do, especially as Mark rolls his eyes and holds out a hand for him to take. He flinches at the gesture, and Webby swipes at the hand with her axe. Mark retracts it with a yelp, staring down the kids with a defiant yet petulant rage. Before he can say anything else, a body falls down on Mark, hard- Scrooge wraps his cane around the front of the man and drags him to the floor, both screaming for different reasons. 

“That’s whatcha get fer attackin’ my kids!” the scottish man yells into Mark’s ear, who groans at the loud sound. 

“Get off me, Geezer!” 

Scrooge makes a show of not getting off of him. “Kids! Are ye alright?” 

Webby nods. 

Boyd can’t look away from Mark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, me? Uploading two fics in one day? Somehow it's more likely than you'd think


	6. with every endless night, with each wasted week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off, sorry this chapter is so short- and sorry for any grammar errors, i'm pretty sick right now so i did my best but may have easily missed some stuff. Huey's perspective for this chapter because he is the most objective and i want to come back to his views in a later chapter so i want you guys at least a little used to hearing from him. 
> 
> also, i have been receiving a TON of super nice comments on this fic, and a good handful of people have reached out to me on tumblr/insta to talk to me about this fic. I'm so happy you're all so interested. Sorry this chapter is a bit lame but i needed this set-up, and thank you to everyone who has taken the time to send me a nice message.

If you asked Huey how his day was planned, he’d have brought out a chart with various points and notes and wouldn’t have had to even look at it to read it aloud. Nowhere on that chart did _getting attacked by robots before breakfast_ even slightly fit onto said list. It might have been, potentially, if the day was planned with adventuring with Scrooge in mind- but their uncle had plans to spend the day with Uncle Donald and their mom Della, albeit still in the mansion, as it had to do with fixing Donald’s boat after a leak had appeared and Donald’s self-repairs were starting to get… well, he could use the help. 

So, no. Huey had no plans of the sort to get attacked by robots so early in the morning. 

Dewey woke later than the rest of them, and once he did, the triplets waited for him to get changed so they could go down and get breakfast. They could have gone separately, of course, but Louie never liked to eat the moment he woke up and Huey liked the togetherness of the act of breakfast. He took to tinkering with the deactivated robo-spider in the meantime, even waving as Boyd poked his head in their doorway on his way down the hall. He hadn’t heard the parrot exit his room to begin with, but he supposes he’d been too engrossed in his work- the functions of the robo-spider in front of him were fascinating, incredible even, and he was debating bringing them down to Gyro to get a second opinion on their potential to be remote-controlled over AI. 

After the parrot makes his way away to follow after Webby, Louie grumbles under his breath. Huey doesn’t like it when people grumble- they should either make a statement or tuck a statement away. He says as such, and even though he's still looking at the robot, he knows Louie rolls his eyes. 

“I _said,_ I don’t know what Webby’s up to, and I don’t think I like it.” 

Dewey stirs at that. “Hnngh,” he says through a mouthful of pillow, then yawns. “S’s p’rolly jus’ showin’ him her weapons rack.” 

Huey nods. Most likely. Webby was rather proud of it, after all. Louie slides off his bunk to the floor. “She just… said something to me the other day. That I didn’t really like, about Boyd.” 

“What?” 

Louie rubs the back of his neck. “It’s probably nothing. I trust Webby, and I- I know I’m just overthinking things.” 

Huey hums. Dewey patters tiredly over to their closet to get changed, and Huey takes to cleaning up after himself. Louie stands and scrolls on his phone while he waits. 

Then, together, the three make their way down to the kitchen. 

Or. They try. 

“Uh, Hue? You didn’t put the robo-spider away?” Dewey asks, staring. 

Huey stares, too. Ahead of them, deadcenter to the hall, is another one of them. It’s decidedly not broken, and it is, unequivocally, staring back. 

“That… is not the same one,” he manages. 

“We should. Run?” Louie asks. 

“Ya,” Huey agrees. 

After a moment of dumb staring, they do exactly that. Yet, they don’t get far; they make it to the living room before another stands in their way, shooting something long and heavy at them, and they don’t have a moment to escape before it expands over their heads and lands as a net over them. It’s heavy, and it pins them down with ease. 

“Webby!” Louie cries at their side, “Help!” 

Smart thinking, to call for Webby- but it doesn’t do much good as the spiders scan over their bodies with a red beam, only for a negative beep to emit after the action. The two robots scuttle away, leaving the triplets trapped and dumbfounded. 

Dewey pulls out his phone. “I’ll call Scrooge!” 

Smart again. Huey felt a momentary flit of pride in his chest for his siblings before he nods and feels around his head, under his hat, for his pocket knife. He can hear Dewey’s phone ring, placed on speaker as the triplets wait anxiously for a response. 

They get one. “Laddie!” 

“Uncle Scrooge!” The three shout in unison. 

“We’re trapped under a metal net in the living room!” Huey says into the line. 

There’s rusting in the line. “Us too! These blasted robotical arachnids got tha jump on your Uncle an’ I!” 

“Boys!” Donald says into the line, sounding panicked, “Stay where you are! We’re coming to get you!” 

Dewey scoffs. “We can’t go anywhere by definition of being trapped _under a net!”_

Louie grabs for the phone, and Dewey scoffs again. “How do we get out of these things?” 

Huey notices his little brother’s heavy breathing. The net must be worrying his claustrophobia. Donald must hear it, too, because he talks a bit more calmly to his youngest. “We’re working on it, Louie, just hang tight. There’s spaces between the net, so you can see out and breathe, right boys?”  
“Ya,” Louie says back, somewhat uneasily.

“Try to widen those spaces however you can. We’re doing the same and making some progress. Nothing is impenetrable!” 

Louie nods, ending the call. He sighs, then hands the phone to Dewey before inspecting the net and shrugging before chomping down, pulling at the spaces opened. 

Huey and Dewey share looks before doing what they can to follow suit. 

In the end, it’s Della who gets them out. She’d slept in, and somehow managed to avoid any spiders on her way to the living room, still in her nighty and power-walking to the kitchen for coffee before she’d spotted the boys under the net. Using her fake foot, she’d managed to pry it up from the outside, just enough that the small boys could wiggle their way out- though it took some effort, and by the time she’d gotten them out, she was huffing and lying back on the floor. 

“I seriously… need coffee.” 

Dewey’s stomach grumbles. He laughs at the sound sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “We could do with some food,” he notes with a grin. 

“Break for breakfast?” Della suggests with a little hum, and Dewey nods eagerly.

Huey and Louie gap at them. “Mom!” 

“Ah, I’m kidding! Let’s go find the others,” she laughs, pushing herself up and patting Dewey’s head after seeing his disappointed look. “Stay vigilant, boys. You don’t wanna get trapped under another one of those. Weird that I haven’t seen any of those spiders, though…” 

Louie tugs at her shirt, pointing down the hall. His hand is shaking slightly, Huey notices, and he tries not to comment on it. After all, Huey was a little shaken up, too. How could something even get in the mansion? It was heavily fortified, they had a _ghost_ butler, and Scrooge was always prepared for anything. 

Right? 

“Boyd went down that way before, after Webby. We should go get them first,” Louie says, after a moment.  
Their mother nods and, with a determined look, sets off towards the indicated hallway. “Got it. Let’s go.” 

“Is that… Mark Beaks?” Huey asks aloud once they arrive, only to find the parrot pinned to the floor by their great uncle, surrounded by familiar faces. Mrs. Beakley and Uncle Donald were by his side; upon their arrival, Donald shouts, “Boys!” and side-steps Mark to get to the triplets. He wraps them up in a big hug that, despite her best attempts, engulfs Della just as fully. 

“Okay, bro, we’re good,” she wheezes, and Donald gives them all one big squeeze before letting go. 

“Told you we’d all get out!” cheers their uncle. Some of his limbs were still wrapped in torn pieces of the material that made up the netting, and his feathers were ruffled significantly; Huey had no doubt in his mind he’d torn it up in a fit of frustration like it was nothing just to get to them. Their uncle might be bad at repairing boats (or at least, doing it without significantly ticking off Scrooge for using his materials wastefully) but he was very strong and very determined. 

“Ya,” Dewey says, peering around Donald to get a better look at the rest of the family, “what happened over here?” 

Scrooge presses harder into Mark, who yelps a little, looking more than a little angered by being held down by an old man. “This one here must’a re-programmed some of Gyro’s drone scouts into his own arsenal… how ah didn’t recognize the patent earlier is all due ta their ridiculous paint job,” he spits. 

Huey drops his bill. “I had noticed how easy to chip off it’s color was… this is all Gyro’s tech?” 

“Just the- ow! Just the model! I’m the one who re-developed it and designed the Boss-Beaks!” Mark snaps from the ground, wiggling to no avail. Huey tilts his head to the large spider behind him, open and shiny. “Don’t give that hack so much credit where I put in a solid, euh, 45% of the work. And get _off!”_

Mr. McDuck does not get off. The parrot gives up struggling from under the duck, turning his gaze to the parrotchick staring blankly at him. As though it would somehow help his case, he smirks; “C’mon, Boyd! You’re gonna let them treat your old man this way?” 

Boyd looks away. Huey watches him hold his crossed arms just a little tighter. 

Mark huffs, indignant to the cold response. “Not that I’m _old,_ of course, but-” 

Mrs. Beakley groans, and Scrooge dutifully side-steps to allow her to heave Mark up, earning a yelp from the man. She lugs him away without so much as a word, her grip on him painfully tight as she pushes him down the hall. Mark protests the entire way; Huey wonders if they have a jail-room somewhere in the mansion that Scrooge neglected to tell them about, and if that was where they were headed. He wants to ask, but stops himself when he notices Boyd. 

Webby looks torn, staring at her axe with a mix of emotions, while Boyd’s eyes scan blankly over the bodies of some fifty broken robo-spiders, some sparking and twitching but all otherwise unresponsive. He leans against the wall, sliding down it and tucking his knees into his chest, looking for all the while like he was about to have some sort of a panic attack. His eyes are shut tight, and after a moment, his entire head finds its way into his hands. Webby tears her eyes away from the axe to slide down the wall and sit next to Boyd, mimicking his pose save for the way he hangs his head. She says something to him Huey can't quite catch, the sound of Scrooge's voice much closer to him covering the sound. 

“Are ya boys alright?” the older duck asks the triplets. Gingerly, each of the boys nod, but Scrooge doesn't appear satisfied with the lackluster answer. He's opened his bill to ask for something else, likely an elaboration, but Donald shuffles out from behind the kids to twist Scrooge's body around until he was facing Webby and Boyd. It takes a moment for the sight to set in before Scrooge seems to understand he's needed elsewhere. He hobbles over to the two, leaning on his cane. The triplets follow behind, sharing uncertain looks with one another, not sure what exactly had happened. Della and Donald follow, too- both equally concerned for the kids, despite them not being their own. 

With some effort, Scrooge lowers himself to the height of a child crumpled against the floorboard. He positions himself in front of Boyd, crossing his legs with some effort. “Boyd? Are ye with us?"

Boyd doesn't respond. His head remains tucked into his arms, still wrapped around his knees tightly, protectively. Scrooge tries again; "Boyd? Lad?" 

"Give him a minute?" Della suggests, her voice loud yet in the tone of a hush, as though that somehow made it smoother. 

"Ahm not inna rush," Scrooge says in exactly the tone Della must have been trying for. To Boyd, Scrooge continues; "Laddie- _Boyd_ \- Ah just need to make sure you can hear me. Can ye nod if you can hear me?" 

It takes so long for it to happen Huey is worried that Boyd cannot, in fact hear them; but, he nods, shifting slightly to make the movement happen. His hands clench tighter around himself in the action. 

"Good, very good, lad. Thank you." 

It seems to be the right thing to say. Boyd shuffles again, peeking up at Scrooge, looking by all means like he needed a 72 hour nap. There was an exhaustion in his eyes that Huey could never have imagined suiting someone who looked so young. "You're not... upset?" 

Scrooge blinks. "Upset?" 

Boyd shoves his head back into his sweater sleeves. "He came here ruining your house and attacking you," he says, voice muffled yet unmistakably distressed. He leaves out what they all hear, anyway- _because of me._

This time, Scrooge _does_ look upset- only, not at Boyd. He glares off to where Mark had been, huffing audibly. "That tech-stealing goon is nothin' more than a side-show. Ye canne blame yourself for his actions. Especially not when it comes to Mark Beaks." 

"That guy's the worst," Louie adds, clearly trying to be helpful but also meaning it completely. 

"Oh, totally!" Dewey admits as well, blowing a raspberry. Huey stays quiet, remembering their internship with him and feeling a growing annoyance take over that he'd rather not get into with everything else going on. Instead, he nods- and thankfully Boyd sees the action, having peeked his eyes up once again, aiming it at the boys. He still looks defeated, but a little interested, too. 

Cautiously, Boyd's gaze flits back to Scrooge's. Their uncle smiles softly at the boy, looking a little sad himself. It seems like there is something he wants to say, but isn't sure if he should. Before Huey can wonder what it might be, his uncle rips the bandaid off. "Laddie… Be honest now. No harm’ll come ta ya while you’re in my care, and as far as ahm concerned, ya still are. Is… Mark _Beaks_ yer, ah. Yer father?” 

Huey's brain stops. _Father?_

Mark Beaks. _Mark Beaks_ , a father- Boyd's father, no less? No way. He almost laughs, and he notes Louie and Dewey's dumbfounded expressions beside him. He just about laughs, too, but Webby's defensive expression shoots a warning at all three of them that screams _bite your tongue or I'll chop it off._

And all Huey can think is oh, Scrooge is being serious. But- _how?_ How could Mark leave Boyd to the streets if he was really his dad? Mark was undeniably an asshole, but that was- and there was more too it, Huey knew, though he didn't know what and he didn't want to pry. He loved puzzles, and he loved mysteries, but he didn't want to treat anybody like something that needed to be solved. It was the only thing that fended him off from outright asking Boyd about where he came from. 

For a while, nobody says anything. Scrooge, somewhat unsure, adds, "Ya don't have to answer if ya aren't... ready." 

Boyd, still tucked into himself, picks his head up a little. He stares their uncle in his eyes, that exhaustion steered into something else now, something Huey can't pinpoint. “No,” he says, sounding a little off. “He’s… he’s not.” 

Scrooge nods. If this answer upsets or calms him at all doesn't show on his face. “If yer up to it, can ye tell us why he insisted it?”

After a moment of deliberation, Boyd breaks eye contact. He stares at the floor, arms still crossed protectively over himself. “He… Mr. Beaks found me, one day. In the landfill. I was injured, and I was happy someone was talking to me, so I…” He pauses. He looks sad. Huey narrows his eyes, trying to work out if that was the right word. No, maybe not. Maybe… ashamed? “He took me home with him, said a… a kid would look good for his image. Boost his ratings?” Boyd shakes his head. His eyes are closed, eyebrows pinched. “And he… forced me to think I’d always lived with him, but I _knew_ that wasn’t true. So I- I ran away, from him.” Shakily, he opens his eyes; then, pleadingly; “Please don’t make me go back to him. I- I’m sorry I’ve caused so much trouble, I can leave, just please don’t- don’t give me to him.” 

Scrooge looks visibly upset. “Laddie, I’d never make you go anywhere with that man. I- I’m sorry, you said he found you in a _landfill?”_

Boyd blinks in surprise before nodding. He loosens his grip around himself, just a little, but does not elaborate. 

After a moment, Scrooge pushes himself off the floor. He dusts off his legs, then holds out a hand for the boy. Boyd stares at it for a long time before he gingerly takes it, allowing himself to be pulled up. “Have ye eaten yet, kids?” he asks them all. 

“Ugh, no, I’m _so_ hungry,” Della answers, and Scrooge sends her a look while Donald elbows her gently. She rolls her eyes. “What, I am,” she mumbles, rubbing her side. 

“Was askin’ the kids, Lass.” 

“Right, right…” 

Huey speaks up for himself and his brothers. Particularly, before Dewey could, knowing he’d draw out the answer a long time. “We haven’t yet. Have you guys?” 

Webby nods, then shakes her head, standing up as well as though it had just occurred to her to do so. “Well, I had an orange, but I could eat again. Boyd didn’t eat anything. I didn’t even think to offer.” 

Boyd looks at her softly. “It’s okay. But, ah, no. I didn’t eat.” 

The eldest duck nods. “Well then. Let's have at that, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter I'd mentioned an immobile heat signature in the driveway. I couldn't make it relevant to that chapter and think it might be funny to tell you know that that's Launchpad. He's not stuck because of a net or anything, he just blew a tire out and is sitting there like a himbo wondering what to do next


	7. all that dialogue doubling back on me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 months later and I'm back. Sorry, writing consistently has been difficult lately. With ducktales coming to an end I've been having trouble staying on top of this fic, too. In the meantime, I've gotten a few other fics done, including a piece for a zine. I've had to call off some of my other fics I'd been working on bc I just can't get them to fit right in my heart (an animaniacs fic, a psych fic, and a final space fic too). Basically, I'm all over the place. Thank you for sticking with me, anyway.  
> This chapter finally lives up to some of the tags, including discussions of trans acceptance and derogatory insults towards autism, so TW there. I'd like to preface that by saying I myself am trans non-binary, but although I am neurodivergent, I am not autistic. Stay safe and take care with big love from me.

It was lucky Scrooge was a bitter man, at times. Lucky, at least this time around, because Scrooge had built a holding cell into the mansion, with plans of using it to toss mongrels inside and teach them a less should they get too snide and too rude with the elder duck, even when he wasn’t so old as he was now. Before he could amply insist on security, men had tried to rob him- the precautionary cell had come in handy then, used to scare them off the grounds after a few hours in there without involving any police hassle. He’d used it to hold down criminals before, so was to say. 

He hadn’t expected Mark Beaks to be among them, but then again. He hadn’t  _ not  _ not expected it. It was built for individuals that got way beyond Scrooge’s nerves while he wasn’t just yet willing to invoke the legal system. Mark Beaks had broken in before, and if he’d done it while Scrooge was home, he’d have held him down there until he’d gotten the  _ how  _ of it all out of the parrot. He still wasn’t entirely sure how he’d done it because Louie wasn’t entirely sure, and he was the only lad around at the time. It had urged Scrooge to be on the look for faults in his security system. 

Turns out he hadn’t looked hard enough. 

“What do you plan to say to him?” Bentina asks, sounding tense. She clearly wanted to have a shot at the man sitting shackled behind the one-way mirror, though she wasn’t so unprofessional as to mention it. Scrooge hums, debating letting her take a crack at it first because frankly, he wasn’t sure if his own failed security was the first thing that would make its way out of his bill, which surprises him. Last time, had he the chance, it would have been the first thing and his only priority to demand of. Now? 

He sighs. “Suppose we’ll see. If ah don’t deck him first.” 

Bentina smirks a little. She adds no comment to the insinuation of violence. He almost wishes she did, simply because at least  _ one  _ of them needed to be level-headed about the situation. He turns his head back to Mark, bill twisted into a frown he seems to have no control over. 

Mark is fiddling with the chains on his wrists, tied down to the table. He looks bored, but his thumbs work over the material almost methodically. He’d been stripped of his watches, remotes, and even his sweater on the off-chance he kept anything up his literal sleeves. It was cold in the holding cell, and he did seem to be shivering a tad at the loss of warmth. It was a small, thoughtless reaction to the environment, something so… 

Real. 

Scrooge pushes the door open, scraping a chair out and taking a seat across from him. Mark looks up at his entry, look of boredom being replaced by annoyance, chains rattling purposefully. “First you kidnap my son, now me?” he drops his hands back to the table. “Typical. Very typical, McDuck! Ugh, you are  _ so  _ old school. I mean, prisons don’t even do this whole,” he waves a chained hand to its capacity, “interrogation thing-y anymore. That’s for courtrooms or whatever.” 

“I can assure you, Beaks, that that is incredibly untrue,” Scrooge says, but Beaks only rolls his eyes. Scrooge recognizes the distraction and reminds himself to stay on topic, silently cursing the man in front of him for his manipulation skills. No wonder he was always able to get his way with the way he… everything, really. “Both of your statements, I do mean. Because, fer starters- Boyd says he is  _ not  _ your son. An’ he hasn’t been kidnapped, an’ neither have you. You’re here to answer my questions. You broke inta  _ my  _ home. If anybody should be in tha right fer involving tha authorities, it’d be me.” 

Mark blows a raspberry. “Says you. I have connections, dude. You’re going  _ down.”  _

__ Scrooge hums. That could easily be true, but it didn’t manage to scare him in the slightest. “What is yer relationship with Boyd, Mark? Be honest now.” 

“He’s-” 

“Not yer son, so tell it straight.” 

Mark’s eyes widen. There’s wicked sparkle there. “Ooooh, I see. He told you what he really is, didn’t he? Well, then, my point still stands! I made him, therefore he is  _ my  _ property, regardless of the whole, yano, nuts-and-bolts thing. Sooo… if not  _ kidnapping,  _ it is still theft. Just for your in-the-know.” 

Scrooge blinks. Nuts and… what in the blazes was he talking about? “Property? You’d call him your  _ property?  _ You- found him in a landfill!” 

Mark scoffs. “Well, if he remembers that, that’s not my problem. I erased that. If he backed it up, somehow, that’s just- well, kinda clever, but  _ rude!  _ But you know what? It doesn’t matter, who cares, not me! At the end of the day I made him into something  _ new,  _ so even if I didn’t, you know, make him from  _ scratch, _ he’s still mine.” 

Scrooge cannot believe what he’s hearing. He’s stuck between unbridled rage and blatant confusion. Something wasn’t adding up. He thinks back to what Boyd had said, how he’d said it.  _ He… forced me to think I’d always lived with him, _ was what the lad had said. He’d sounded pained. Scared. Scrooge had been nothing but angry then, completely taken aback at the idea of any adult influencing a child in such a way, but now it felt… edited. There was no lie in Boyd’s tone, but something was left out. Something was changed. 

_ If he remembers that, that’s not my problem. _

Just how could one man take away a memory in such a way? Sure, trauma blocking out memories was one thing, but… 

Angrily, Scrooge shakes his head. He was unhappy with his own confusion, and things weren't adding up. Regardless, he could see he was getting nowhere with the line or questioning; at least, not yet. Mark rolls his head back, blowing out a raspberry, and Scrooge fights back the urge to throttle him. How could a man so… _ ridiculous _ break into McDuck Manor?  _ Again?  _

__ He wants to ask, but still, something else weighs heavier on his mind. 

__ “Boyd is not yours,” he snaps.

“Why, because he’s,” the parrot tilts his head around the room lazily and brings air quotes to his chained hands,  _ “a real boy?”  _

__ “What, to you, implies he’s  _ not?”  _

__ At that, Mark sits up. His eyes narrow as he scans over Scrooge’s face, looking for  _ something,  _ only for his beak to drop in realization. “Oh. So… he  _ didn’t  _ tell you,” he says in a stupor, then laughs a little. 

At Mark’s giddy composure, a juxtaposition to how he was mere moments earlier, Scrooge balks. He stares at the glass, unable to see Bentina but imagining her own expression behind the glass, assuming it was a parallel to his own. Scrooge turns back to Mark, lost, before a sudden need to know and an anger bubbles up at his own lack of knowledge, feeling very well as though it were  _ him  _ chained to the table rather than the man giggling like he’d just heard the funniest joke in the world. 

He licks his bill, uncertain if he is making the right call when he finally asks, “Tell me  _ what.”  _

Louie drums his fingers inside of his sweater sleeve, unsure of what else to do with his hands but certain he should do something. Beside him, Huey and Dewey sit quietly at the table, neither having moved since Scrooge went off with Bentina to do whatever it was they were planning with Mark. Della and Donald were off, too, clearly sensing the children needed some time to themselves. After eating something, Louie and Webby had walked Boyd to his room- he’d said he was tired, which Louie knew really just meant he wanted to be alone. Which was fair. After all, everyone wanted to ask. They all cared, but the drive for answers was ingrained in their family, and it was taking visible wear on the kids to simply respect Boyd’s privacy. A price they were all willing to put up with, but he didn’t seem to think it fair. 

The walk had been quiet, and when they reached his door, Boyd had thanked them.

_ “For what?” Louie asked, considering he’d missed any actual chance to help anybody while stuck under a net, and Webby… well, she didn’t say anything, instead looking away.  _

_ Boyd’s hand was on the doorknob, and he didn’t face them, but he didn't open the door either. “Just… thanks.”  _

With that, he’d opened the door and closed it the moment he’d slipped behind it. 

The walk back had somehow been even quieter than before. 

“Are you okay?” Huey asks, snapping him back to the present. Louie blinks, realizing he’d been zoning out, before sighing tiredly. 

“Yeah. Just… worried, I guess. I mean…” he lifts his hands from his pocket to indicate  _ something,  _ though unsure of what. Eventually, he shoves them back in his pockets, looking away from Huey’s concerned gaze. “‘M fine.” 

His older brother hums. “Right.” 

Webby hops off her stool. “I’m gonna go find Granny,” she announces suddenly. 

“What for?” Dewey asks, leaning across the kitchen table like it’s the only thing holding him up. He’s jolted out of the dramatic stretch when Webby turns to face him, noting the fire in her eyes. 

“I wanna find out what’s going on. Mark shouldn’t have broken in here so easily.”    
The middle triplet scratches his chin. “Yeah… maybe we should leave that to the adults? I mean, they’ve probably got a plan, right?” 

Louie can’t help but laugh somewhat bitterly. “Since when do the adults have a plan?” 

The silence that follows answers that well enough. Running a hand down his face, Louie leans back against the kitchen countertop. Huey steps forwards, looking between his siblings. “Look, guys… maybe we should just let this one go. There’s a lot at play here, and there’s a real person at stake.” 

Webby sighs. “I know. I… I knew something was up with Boyd. That something was wrong concerning him. I thought that  _ he  _ was the problem, but,” she meets Louie’s eyes, looking tired herself; “I’m starting to think of Lena.” To the group, she waves her phone. “Maybe I should call her? She might know what to say. At the very least, she might understand more than the rest of us.” 

Huey shakes his head, frustrated. “Maybe, but we can’t assume their situations are the same.” 

She frowns before taking a seat again and resting her bill in her hands. With no further protest from her, Huey stands down, looking somewhat contemplative himself. 

Louie goes back to fiddling with his fingers in his sweater pocket, wondering if Boyd was any better off sitting silently in his room than they were in the kitchen. 

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he announces, mainly to Huey. The eldest doesn’t react, but Louie knows he’d heard him. He shuffles out of the kitchen, hands still in his pocket, and makes his way down the hall to where the washrooms are. 

He doesn’t go in. Instead, he keeps walking. A part of him knows he should leave well enough alone, but he finds himself stopping in front of Boyd’s door, anyway. He doesn’t like the idea of Boyd sitting in an isolated room while shit piles up in his head. Louie hated small places, but if there was anything he hated more, it was knowing he could be doing something to help and then  _ not.  _

He steals a deep breath from the air around him before gently knocking on the door. “It’s Louie,” he says, though for some reason, he’s sure Boyd already knows. “Wanted to see if you, uh, wanted anything. Some water. Maybe something else to eat. Some… company. Whatever.” 

There’s silence that meets his request. Louie waits a moment longer, aching for some kind of a response, but he respects Boyd’s privacy and steps away from the door, turning to head back down the hall. 

The door opens a crack, and Louie freezes before he sees his friend’s soft eyes. 

“You can come in, Louie,” the parrotchick says gently, opening the door wide enough for him to do so. Louie nods, making his way inside. He takes note of the guest room Boyd is set up in, wondering which family member Scrooge had built it for. Almost instantly, his eyes land on two holes in the wall adjacent to the bed. His bill drops, wondering what caused them, but he stops himself. Probably not the time to ask. Instead, he turns to Boyd, watching as the younger boy climbs up on his bed and pats next to him. Louie crawls above the covers beside him where indicated, leaning against one wall while Boyd takes his place along the other. 

Neither say anything for a few moments. Louie knows he should, but he isn’t sure what Boyd needs right now. Was being there enough? Did he want to talk about what happened with the spider robots and Mark? Did- 

“Are you okay?” 

Louie blinks. Boyd was asking  _ him  _ that? Did he look that bad? 

“Ya,” he says, trying his best to sound genuine. “Just… confused, I guess. You don’t have to explain anything- I mean, not unless you  _ want  _ to, but… we’re all worried, you know.” 

Boyd tilts his head down, thumbing the fabric of his yellow sweater. His eyes looked far away, though he didn’t look upset. “I’m sorry for worrying you all.” 

Louie turns his head away. Boyd was apologizing for  _ worrying _ them. He certainly didn’t learn to talk like that from Mark Beaks. The thought almost makes him laugh. As it was, he smiles, just a little. 

They sit quietly at each other's side for a while. Louie is certain that his siblings know he’s not in the washroom, but none of them have come after him. He wonders if that’s for the best or not. 

Boyd’s eyes look so far away that Louie wonders if the silence is building up the pressure in his head. Suddenly worried that it was, and that maybe his presence was making things  _ worse,  _ he clears his throat. “So... You feelin’ okay? After… you know,” he waves a hand, unsure if his new friend would appreciate hoping directly into it or not. Boyd tilts his head back up to him, and up close, there was an unmistakable ache behind his eyes. 

He sighs. “Louie,” is the precarious start, littered with hesitance before the boy finally sets his mind, “do you ever… forget stuff? Things that you know are important but- but you just can’t fully grab it?” 

He watches the duckling for an answer, looking as though he was scarcely expecting one. Louie doesn’t want to let him down, so he ponders it for a moment. “Honestly? We all forget stuff sometimes. If it’s important enough, it’ll come back eventually. Yano, you should ask Dewey that. He forgets stuff like, all the time.” 

That seems to lighten the air in the room enough, because Boyd smiles, even just for a moment. Louie holds onto that, even when it falls just seconds later, replaced by another uncertain frown. 

Louie swings his leg on the bed. “Well, c’mon, then. What’d you forget?” 

The kid stretches his legs out, too. “If I knew, it wouldn’t be forgotten.” 

“But you know what you forgot, right? Even if you don't know what it is you forgot?” 

Boyd stares at him like he’d grown a second head. Then, he laughs, falling back on the bed. “I suppose that tracks,” he giggles, “I don’t know how, but it does.” 

Louie lays back on the bed with him. Boyd’s laughter dies down, after another moment, and he says with a smile still in his voice; “thanks.” 

Louie raises an eyebrow. “You already thanked me before, and I still don’t know what for.” 

Boyd hums. “I haven’t… told you guys everything. About who-  _ what-  _ I am. But you’re still letting me stay here.” 

Silence meets his admission. Louie turns on the bed to face him better, and at the increased attention, Boyd looks melancholy. “I don’t know if you’ll let me stay if I tell you.” 

The uncertainty in his voice hangs heavy in the air. Louie’s heart aches, the familiar position something reminiscent of one he’d felt in the past, and one he still sometimes feels regardless of how well things seemed to be going. He swallows, knowing this wasn’t about him, but wondering if maybe… 

“You know,” he starts, deciding to try anyway, deciding it might matter. “This family is remarkably accepting. There are a lot of people who are, amidst the ones who… aren’t. And… for what it’s worth, I know what you are.” 

Boyd sits up faster than Louie can blink. “You do?” 

It takes Louie a bit more effort to sit up, scooting back on the bed and crossing his legs over the covers while still making an effort to face him. “Ya. You’re a kid, just like me. No matter where you come from, or even who you used to be… you’re our friend. My friend.” 

A long moment passes, and Boyd’s voice cracks when he looks away. “You say that now, but… but that could change. If you knew. And I know it-it’s selfish of me to keep it to myself but, Louie, I-I don’t want to lose you as a friend. I can’t remember if I’ve ever had anybody like you guys in my life before. I mean, what if it’s too much, and you take back everything you’re saying right now? Or you say it’s fine, somehow, but it’s  _ not?  _ What if-” 

“I’m trans,” Louie tells him suddenly, cutting off the boy’s spiral. Boyd seems to stumble, the desperation on his face halted only to be replaced by confusion. Louie twiddles his thumbs over his lap. He watches his own incited movement, conjuring up the courage to be honest. “This family… they support me. Even though... I’m a little different from them. I got to choose to be who I wanted to be,” he tells Boyd, looking up. “And I got to do it with my brothers and my uncle by my side, and now my sister and mom and great uncle and Launchpad and a whole lot of other people, too. And not… all of them know,” he admits, because he’s not certain if he’s ever told Launchpad or Mrs. Beakley, or if his Uncle had told them or even one of his brothers, “but all of them care about me. So it doesn’t matter.”

Boyd is watching him with wide eyes, beak slightly open. He closes it. Then, he looks away. When he speaks, his voice is as curled tight as his body, still pressed small against the wall. “Thanks, Louie, for telling me. But… they’re your family. And they’re a good one. And I don’t have that.” 

Louie slumps next to him on the wall. Boyd doesn’t look up. Gently, the duck asks, “did you ever?” 

“... I think. Maybe,” is the clipped response. “I can’t really remember. It was a long time ago if I did.” 

Louie hums. “You could, you know. And you could start with us.” 

Boyd curls in even tighter. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew.” 

_ Knew what?  _ Louie wants to ask, growing frustrated with the circles they were going in, but he bites his tongue. Maybe the point he was trying to make still hadn’t sunk in. He tries again; “When I first came out I was scared, too. I wasn’t sure if… if they would believe me, maybe. If they would take me seriously. My brothers don’t really do ‘serious’. Well, Huey does, but… I was scared anyway. But it turned out okay, in the end. I’m Louie. So… who are you?” 

For a long moment, there is nothing. Louie is afraid, in the silence, that he was pushing too hard. He doesn’t want his new friend to be forced to tell him anything. Another moment of silence, and Louie’s bill opens to take it back and apologize. 

Boyd shifts, his eyes poking out from behind his crossed arms, still tight around his legs. The sad look in his eyes gives his voice pause. 

The parrot thumps his head back against the wall, beak to the ceiling. “I’m a robot.” 

Louie stares. For a second, he’s unsure if he heard him correctly- surely, he hadn’t. But just from looking at his tired, deserted expression, Louie knows his hearing was just fine. 

He’s not sure what he was expecting but it hadn’t been  _ that.  _ He remembers a few times, especially when they were younger, Huey being made fun of for his autism on playgrounds and, once, in the middle of their homeroom class. He’d been called a robot a few times for the way he behaves- it was a cruel sentiment Huey had even muttered about himself sometimes, at low moments. Louie’s fist clench at the thought. 

“Are you… trying to say autistic?” he asks, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. If Boyd had been chased away for who he was, thrown robotic insults to the point of internalization, then there was a good chance he simply didn’t  _ know  _ the difference. The thought enrages him, and in that moment, he feels ready to beat up whoever made Boyd feel like anything less than a person. 

And yet, the boy shakes his head. “N-no, I mean… literally.” 

As if to solidify his point, the boy clenches his fist and knocks on his head. The metallic, grounded sound that emanates from something that should have been soft and fleshy is all the proof Louie needs.

“Huh,” is all he can say. “Not what I was expecting, but okay.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> calling autistic people robots is not okay and if anybody says it is point me at them i'll *beats them up

**Author's Note:**

> I'm 'dasicality' on everything but twitter, and I draw a lot of boyd and gladstone centric stuff on insta and tumblr in specific bc. I love them? wack


End file.
